The Perfume of Life

By Sally Franz

Scientists have long believed that smells are linked to the way-back-machine part of our brains, somewhere between reptiles and fish. The theory goes that a smell can take you back to a long ago memory as many long term memories are linked with the smells. Using this science, I often taught adult students to use strong aromas when the students tried to memorize things. Chew cinnamon gum or keep a bowl of sliced lemons near you. Of course at our age we should just have a spritzer device shooting out smells all day long, or maybe it could be triggered as we go from room to room dropping keys, glasses and cell phones.

Indulge me therefore as I go down an olfactory memory lane. My early scent memories of the kitchen include cinnamon rolls, brownies fresh out of the oven, banana bread, and fried chicken.

When I was five my thirteen-year-old stepsister came to live with us. She brought with her smells that equaled being a grown-up, old enough to go on dates. That development ushered in smells such as Noxzema, Shalimar, Chanel No 5, nail polish and Revlon make-up. Then there was the Toni perm smell, the peroxide smell, Sun-In and the odor of burning hair under the iron. And of course there was the smell of beer, as an addition to the hair when setting and drying to make it crunchy and hold the set. (This was the poor gal’s Dippity-Do.)

As I entered the teenage years, I added to that repertoire fragrances such as Ban roll-on, my twin brother’s Right Guard, Coppertone suntan lotion (note: not sun screen), and soon afterwards the equivalent of bear grease aka Ban de Soleil. I was soon to add my own lethal choices of perfume, Canoe, Tigress, Jean Nate and Yardley lavender. In high school I worked at a drugstore where I got to sample everything in the perfume case. I can only guess my parents had lost their sense of smell during the onslaught of my two older sisters. I am sure the mixture I wafted into the house after my work shift was somewhere between stale brothel and fleet week hooker.

But that was nothing compared to the deluge of wreaking havoc my twin brother rendered. He who worked under the theory of: if a little aftershave got you a kiss, how much more the reward for a chemist’s brew of Old Spice, English Leather, Bay Rum and Brut? The answer is he’d had better hoped his prey was without any smelling capacity whatsoever.

New smells entered my nose as I got closer to college. The smell of typewriter ribbon, the smell of gas when I was learning to pump my own and the smell of leather seats when you made-out enough to mix your own sweat with the animal hides.

College had its own set of perfumes and I use the word lightly. Mildew, dust and smelly shoes were the dorm room smells and that was in a girls only dorm. There were Prell shampoo, egg shampoos, berry cream rinse, and lemon streaking lotions.

And as overused as was my regular dousing of Tigress, by the time I reached college I was claiming Windsong by Prince Matchabelli (whoever that was) as my go to potion #9. After all the slogan was a winner, “Windsong keeps you on his mind”. That was especially true if you slathered it on his sweater, steering wheel, winter scarf and drenched your stationary in it. Soon after that I graduated to the Prince’s newest fare, Cache. Which sold so well on our campus it was more like Cliché.

Now my smell memory is more limited, though I do mix and match scents like Garanimals. There is the wafty scent of BenGay, with the woody tones of Eucalypst (courtesy of Vicks), the lower tones of Preparation H and the highlights of mint courtesy of whatever mouthwash is on sale at the Big Box store. And it is with dread that I realize these fragrances are how my grandchild will remember me: I, who used Youth Dew and Chanel like costume jewelry. Maybe when they visit me in the retirement village I can get a few of those car fragrance dangling pine trees and use them as window shade pulls. It beats old person smell.

Sally Franz is a former stand-up comedian, motivational speaker, and radio host. She is a twice-divorced mother of two and a grandmother of three. Sally has a degree in gerontology and several awards for humor writing. She is the author of “Scrambled Leggs: A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey,” and “The Baby Boomer’s Guide to Menopause.”