Smell Memory

I decided to boil some yarn tonight. Don’t ask. Or if you do, make sure you really want to hear the answer. I tend to do strange things when David travels. Anyway, I was boiling this beautiful peacock blue wool yarn and I happened to lean over the pan and sniff. I was immediately transported to Aunt Naomi’s cabin the Pennsylvania mountains. The wool smelled exactly like waking up on a chilly morning on the ancient brown fold down couch which Dave once described as more of a bun than a bed, partially smothered in musty down pillows and threadbare quilts. It smelled like the creaky floor and the wood burning stove and the pump out back and 17 cousins sitting around big table trying to figure out how to work the 1930’s electric toaster. It smelled just like my childhood, and for a minute—just a minute-- I was there. I was eight years old pulling daddy long legs off the screens and playing jacks on that creaky floor.
There is something about a smell memory that transports me like no other. Not pictures, not movies, not sitting around at family reunions confessing long guarded secrets. I don’t know why. It doesn’t happen very often, but it is the closest thing to time travel that I have ever experienced. Like the time I took my kids to Cabin John Park, the most fabulous playground of my childhood. I loved that the metal slide still looked 50 feet tall, that the little blue passenger train dutifully made its loop around the woods, and that Porky the Trash Eating Pig was still going strong, inviting children in that same chesty voice to feed him lots of paper and wrappers and even scraps, but please, no glass—it gives him a tummy ache. But it wasn’t until I pushed open the door of the little shop and breathed in the magical combination of snow cone and popcorn and cotton candy and old chewing gum and the anticipation of 30 years worth of children that I felt the time shift and I was a kid again, experiencing that smell for the very first time.
I wish it happened more often. There are lots of things I would love to live again. I guess I will just have to wait for the perfect scent to waft my way and carry me back in time. And I hope one day that I will be walking down some street in America, or trying a new recipe in my Texas kitchen and will somehow find the perfect smell that will transport me back to a misty fall morning, waiting for the fresh, hot waffles to be passed over the counter to warm my hands and make me glad for the years spent in Belgium.

Special Olympics

Way, way back, before vacations of all sorts, I had three kids in the Special Olympics. My kids are incredibly fortunate to have wonderful friends in the special education program at ISB. They really love these kids. Matthew, in fact, loves his friend Max so much that he was willing to set aside his sworn hatred of any movement brisker than a plod and actually run. I will interject here that Max hates to run too, so they made a pretty good team. Benjamin doesn't really love running, but he is darn good at it, and it is a good thing too because so is Creig.
Benjamin partnered Creig in the 1600 meter and they tore it up, coming in second place behind their team mates and friends.

The medals ceremony is a hoot, with lots of loud music, innovative outfits, and a rousing hip, hip, hip, hip, horray! in a rousing dutch accent.

Matthew and Max lined up on a grey, wet, Belgian Saturday morning...

with their team mates Anna and Mathilde...

And made great time on their race. So great in fact, that they each ran a personal best and surpassed their practice times by more than 3 minutes!

More hip, Hip, HIp, HIP, HORRAY! Way to go ISB!

Life doesn't get much better than this-

Fall

We're Back!

August is vacation month in Europe. People disappear and businesses, resturants, and even roads close down for the entire month. The first year we were here I walked happily to my favorite bakery anticipating a delicious citron tart only to find that said tart was not to be had for three whole weeks. As Americans, we can't fathom the concept that a thriving business would shut its doors for a whole month during prime shopping season just so the owners can zoom off to the South of France for a little sun and wine and rest. But every year my little bakery closes down for the month of August and I do without my tarts and I can't wait for September to come so that a multitude of pleasures and options are restored.

In keeping with that tradition, I took the month of August off. Well, and part of September too. Sorry for the lack of excitement around here. I should have posted a sign:

CLOSED FOR THE MONTH OF AUGUST

ANECDOTES AND PHOTOS TO RESUME IN SEPTEMBER

We have now re-opened for business. Hope you enjoyed the rest. Stay tuned...