The Smells of my Memory

Smells from fifty years ago suddenly waft through my nostrils, unearthing memories long forgotten; unleashed treasures of my childhood, stored away for half a century, rush forth… triggered by an invisible catalyst.

I have only to wander through the fish market to conjure up memories of the old FJ panel van belonging to the fishmonger of yesteryear. Grey with rusty panels, wooden boxes packed with ice, glassy eyes and upturned fins protruding at either end, an old leather apron and shiny leather cap.

My mother with a few shillings, bartering in a friendly battle, and the wonder of watching him fillet the fish on the tailgate, once the deal had been done.

How many people of today can relate the smell of fresh bread to the aroma of horse dung? Well I remember waiting at the front gate for the clip-clop of the approaching Baker’s cart, the smell of fresh horse dung, and the taste of fresh bread as we burrowed holes in the high-top loaf. If we were lucky, the horse would deposit a steaming pile, manure for the garden at no extra charge…and rarely did that loaf make the kitchen table in one piece. I don’t think fresh bread could ever taste as good as it did in those days.

The invigorating smell of fresh pine sawdust on the Butcher’s floor, the lure of matured cheese, great wheels on the Grocer’s counter, wrapped in cloth and covered in wire cages. The aroma of fresh tea in wooden chests, mingling with fresh ground coffee, and competing with bars of velvet soap in a kaleidoscope of smells from pre-supermarket days.

How many children of today can say the smell of dry ice and canvas reminds them of ice-cream?…indeed how many of them know what dry ice is?

And the feel of that little wooden spoon on the tongue, as we dug away at the wax papered ice-cream containers…Dandy was the trade name of our favorite brand, proudly on display in that great canvas bag with its heavy zippered lid.

The memories come flooding back as I write these notes, memories of my past, things that I haven’t recalled for years, each one triggering another as I put pen to paper. The smell of hot tar in the summer heat, as it stuck to our shoes, or burnt our bare feet. The smell of burning dust on the valves of the old radio set as we sat around listening to ‘Blue Hills’ or ‘Hop Harrigan’…each smell bringing into sharp focus, the sights and sounds of long ago.

These are the smells of my memory, these and many more; buried treasures waiting to be set free…instant re-plays of years gone by.

Rex Jacobs.

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Rex Jacobs