On the last leg of my ride last evening, I decided to cut back through the village and take the footpath through the churchyard. It was a pleasant, a bit on the chilly-side evening an the sun was not quite ready to set. I figured that I had plenty of time to make it in the evening light before the churchyard gets too dangerous to ride through.
The grass had been mown yesterday so the smell of fresh-cut grass was powerful. I caught a whiff of the grass and had to stop. I just wanted to hop off my bicycle and roll in the lawn. I have always loved the smell of freshly cut grass! (I was able fight the urge, but at that moment, I did understand Saga's penchant for rolling in things she finds to be aromatically pleasing. I just wish that some of those things were a little less disgusting!)It was mostly the smell of the grass, but that combined with the chill in the air and the late afternoon sun shining down on the clapboard siding of the church building set off a powerful wave of nostalgia. There was only one place that we got that particular mix of mown grass and cool, chilly light of a late summer afternoon: Minnesota.
Until the first time I worked for my uncle on the family homestead, I had never actually understood that it got hot and stayed hot in Minnesota. It seemed that every time we went, the air would be hot and humid in the afternoons and then we would go upstairs to bed and would have to pile on the quilts and blankets. The old iron beds, their springs creaking as we moved on the bed, looking like miniature mountains of linen.
During the day we would play in the yard of Grandma and Grandpa's house in town (we'd stalk each other through the garden or go down to the rail line and play balance beam on the tracks) or go out to the farm (and watch the work being done out in the fields) and then as the night fell we'd put on our sweaters and watch the last of the lightening bugs fly over the lawn.
On days when we had some allowance money left, we'd go down to the main street (a couple blocks away) and spend our money on the crap in Wally Block's store. There was always something interesting to buy at Block's. There was last year's Halloween candy, smoke bombs, dime store toys, army surplus clothing and other assorted junk. Actually, I enjoyed Block's store well into adulthood (yes, for those of you who doubt that I have actually entered adulthood, I do occasionally admit to it) when I realized that some of that "junk" was actually a pretty interesting collection of antiques.
I stood in the middle of the churchyard for a good five minutes smelling the grass and remembering Minnesota until it occurred to me that it would look strange for someone to come along and see me just standing there astride my bicycle head thrown back, eyes closed breathing deeply. So I remounted the bicycle and rode home.
I hope that wherever you are today, your day is filled with pleasant memories, new or old.
Don Bergquist - 08 September 2006 - Thames Ditton, Surrey, UK
1 comment:
It's true. My mother died when I was eight years old, but everytime I pass a Cin-a-bon in the mall, or a bakery where cinnamon rolls are being made, my eyes fill with tears and I remember coming home from school to the smell of fresh baked bread and cinnamon rolls. That was over 54 years ago and it still happens every time.
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