Close your eyes and sniff:
On second thought, don't close your eyes. Just gaze
upon the pretty lilacs and let your olfactory memory go to work.
For many people, the image alone will be enough to
trigger a vivid scent memory, a scent likely to conjure thoughts of springtime,
sunshine, warm breezes and gentle rain.
I should be so lucky.
Oh, the lilac image does trigger a scent memory for me,
no doubt about that. But no sweetly perfumed breezes come to mind. Instead, my
traitorous nose conjures a dank and earthy funk.
It all began on a warm spring afternoon in 1986. Friends
and family had been invited to the farm for a celebration of my parents' wedding anniversary.
After days of intense preparation, the feast was ready. Our little house looked
bright and fresh as could be. Even our three rambunctious sons had been
scrubbed clean. As party hour drew near, I took a moment alone to admire the
table. Set with grandma May's treasured Limoges china and our special occasion crystal glassware, it sparkled, ready for company.
"Mom!" The screen door slammed and middle son
bounded into the house looking slightly less scrubbed than I remembered.
"Dad wants to know if—"
He fell suddenly silent, his smile fading away and his
nose wrinkling. Before I could ask what was wrong, he took a giant step back
and said, in a horrified tone, "It smells bad in here, Mom."
As I moved to join him in the hallway, I caught a whiff
of it, too. And there was no mistaking that smell. Dead mouse.
Mice are an inescapable fact of country life and, for
the most part, we chose to live and let live, as long as the mice chose wisely
and stayed outside. Inside, they were rodent non grata and definitely not welcome at our party, dead or alive.
Middle son rounded up his brothers and we organized a
search. The odour was strongest in the front hall and near the cellar stairs
but despite poking, prodding, and sniffing in every possible nook and cranny we
had no luck finding the stinky culprit. Our guests were due to arrive in less
than an hour. The smell was growing stronger by the minute. What to do?
The day was warm, with a gentle, steady breeze, so my
first step was to open all the windows. That's when middle son remembered what
he'd been sent to ask me. "Do you want Dad to cut some lilacs for the
house?"
Yes! Our lilac hedge had some of the most aromatic
flowers I'd ever encountered. Their sweet, long-lasting fragrance was exactly
what we needed to disguise the presence of a not-so-dearly departed mouse. While
I pulled out every vase I could find, plus a few big mason jars for good
measure, the boys helped their dad cut lilacs. Masses and masses of lilacs. We
placed them in the front hallway, beside the cellar door, in the living
room and sunroom—even in the bathroom. They looked lovely and, more important,
they smelled lovely… like springtime.
The party was a success—great company, good food, happy
times. Everyone loved the lilacs. We even sent bunches home with a few people.
Only later, with windows closed against the cool evening air, did the scent of
mouse begin to insinuate itself again, mingling with the fragrance of cut lilacs
until the two smells became one.
Days passed. As the flowers faded, so did their
fragrance. The smell of death faded, too, and we never did find the mouse. Its dry
bones remain entombed forever inside the walls of that old house.
The following year when the first lovely lilacs burst
into bloom in our garden, I was eager to visit them, to bury my face in the pale
purple flowers and revel in the scent of springtime. That's when I first discovered
the awful olfactory truth. And thirty years later, that truth still applies.
For me, the sweet, heady perfume of lilacs will always carry a base note of
mouse.
stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington
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