Heaven Only Nose

"Make it smell like Christmas, Daddy!"

attribution below

This has become the battle cry whenever Mr. grabs a can of Glade, post bathroom visit.

The trouble is, someone doesn't know when to stop spraying. Soon, the whole house is doused in the scent of pine.

Don't get me wrong. A whiff, a hint, a sniff of pine is all well and good. But too much of a good this is, well, too much of a good thing.

A little pine does invoke memories of the holidays. Just as Play Doh puts me back at the kitchen table, my Mom admonishing me not to get it on my clothes, in my hair, or in my mouth. (It only took one time eating Play Doh to realize that although it looks yummy, this is one instance when pretend-eating is clearly the way to go.)  

Unlike airplane glue, there's no rule about not huffing Play Doh. That scent lingers in my memory, along with other smells I've carried around in my brain over the years.

The musty smell of my grandma's attic. where she kept the games and paper dolls we played with on our visits.

The scent of Crayola crayons. (Also not a delicacy.) We sat at the table and colored for hours. I always colored outside the lines, in spite of my siblings' admonishments. A clear indication of my future subversive nature.

When lily of the valley blooms next to our house, I can't resist sticking my nose in them. Mom used to pick them for me to take to school. And lilac, too. 

And the unmistakable aroma of Wind Song that, inexplicably, wafted from the perfume bottle my grandmother gave me, long after the contents were gone.

So, what do we call this? Nasal memory, perhaps? I don't know. 

But I am happy to share that the scent of old books is beloved enough to have earned its own name: "vellichor."

That's a story for another time.

Harry Whittier Frees, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. This photo has nothing to do with the topic, I just came across it in my travels and thought it was stinkin' cute.