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E-birthday
Snailmail brought me one postcard when I
turned 41. For the rest I got dozens of SMS
messages and numerous congratulations via social
media. My electronic post box nearly exploded.
Virtual flowers, cakes with Katja on it,
birthday songs on YouTube, dancing hippos,
balloons, confetti, mooing cows, electronic
kisses: all sorts of messages slid by my eyes,
ears and cheeks that day. Whoever says that
Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn are impersonal I
would be happy to give evidence of the opposite.
I kept thanking, glowing, putting up chairs and
getting extra cake on that dreary grey Monday.
And that single postcard came from my dearest
girl friend from years ago. The smell of present
and past mingled here in a curious fashion.
Just like a smell can embrace or repel. Of
course I got a new fragrance for my birthday. A
good scent for sure, but I shook my head when
viewing the dozens of perfumes that are already
in my bathroom cabinet. Full bottles with
precious liquid, maybe used once. Why do I not
like artificial smells but instead prefer fresh
laundry that has rustled in the wind? Why do I
prefer Sunlight soap, polishing wax and the
smell of stewed pears? The smell of wet leaves,
churned-up black soil and cloves in stewed meat?
The smell of freshly baked cookies in the neck
of my little girl when she cuddles against me in
bed early in the morning? The sultry air of the
hot sands in the Loonse en Drunense Dunes?
And no matter how weird it sounds, even my old
grandmamma smells nice. Smells of my past! When
I close my eyes and sit down next to her, I
smell her house and the overripe strawberries in
her vegetable garden. I smell granddaddy in his
chair, hands resting on his lap, twiddling his
thumbs, laughing. I smell the warm apple sauce,
the fried potatoes, the porridge that she let
boil for just a second so that a sugary layer
developed on top. I smell the shrubs where we
played hide-and-seek, the fresh eggs, still
warm, that we pulled from under the chickens. I
even still smell the mice from the flour bin,
scattering around our legs when we gave the bin
a quick spin.
I have decided to thin out my collection of
fragrances. Each day I will try out a new scent,
and if I don’t like it right away then away it
goes. The ‘throw out’ shelf keeps growing. I
must accept it: I am not a perfume buff. Worse,
I can intensely detest people that I can smell
as they walk in the door. That can even be the
friendly smell of flowers. Car seats that smell
of previous owners obviously make me recoil. The
same applies to car sellers that extend a hand
accompanied by an explosive scent of aftershave.
To dentists who emit a bitter coffee smell as
they chatter away above your wide-open mouth. To
long queues of people that include someone who
forgot to wash the old perspiration away. You
don’t need to smell, I tell my boys. Everyone
perspires, but if you take a shower each day and
pull on a clean shirt then there is no problem.
And biologically, everything is in good order,
for I honestly cannot stand the sickly smell in
the room of my oldest son, who stuffs his socks
into his shoes. Whereas the penetrating body
odour that his hormones emit undoubtedly
attracts numerous frisky girls. It repels me.
Fortunately. That’s how it should be. I prefer
to stick my nose into my hubby’s neck. Even if
he hasn’t washed up yet. Speaking – or smelling
- of attraction.
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Written on 23 November 2010 |
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