*The Scents of Home

The screen door slammed shut behind me, after walking up the gravel driveway where the school bus had deposited the seven of us.  

"Mo-om!" Always two syllables in the word mom when I wanted to find her. "We're ho-ome!" She was usually up in her sewing room, or in the kitchen. The smell of home-baked bread filled my nostrils. I would find her in a bit; I just wanted her to know we were home. I was hungry after a long day at school, and the smells from the kitchen enticed me to follow my nose.

The Iseman-Beidler Home in Shipman, Virginia in the seventies.

The sweet memories I have of home are based on smells, one of my strongest memory triggers. Onions and garlic sautéing on the stove, smoke from the chimney drifting over the yard, bread out of the oven; all of these have a profound affect on me. It seems I passed on my love of sensory experiences to my children.

My daughter and I have bonded over our reaction to the sense of touch. Whenever we shop, you can find us gliding our hands over every single towel, blanket, rug, and sweater. If it's soft, we have to stop, and share the feeling. With my boys, we seem to connect over smells.

Every time Bridger visited, he would stand in front of the linen closet and take a deep, inhaling breath.  

"Aaaaah..." he would exhale.  "I love this."  

Me, too. The scents of Tide and Downy intermingled among the sheets and towels make me react the same way. He still loves to press his face into clothes fresh out of the dryer.

When the kids were babies, I would empty the clothing hot out of the dryer onto them on the couch. They each squirmed with delight at the warmth and smells that came from the clean clothes. I suppose that's one reason I have always loved doing laundry since becoming a mom. I control the scents that go into the washer and dryer, and I had more than two decades of pleasant memories of folding the clothes on the couch while the kids watched TV.

In November, my 26 year-old came to Marysvale to visit me for my birthday weekend. When he opened the door, he said, "Ahhhh, your house always smells so good."

"Thanks!  It's probably the pumpkin spice candle..."

"No," he cut me off, "You always make such good food, and that makes the house smell good."

I smiled. The smell of garlic and onions simmering on the stove always reminds me of coming home from school. Mom always started dinner that way, it seemed, and it smelled like love to me. A casserole in the oven or a roast in the crockpot smells like someone took the time to love me.

The boys helped me decorate my artificial tree before the holidays. There was no sweet smell of pine in my house, and we all missed it. We always had a real tree in our old farmhouse when they were growing up. Putting up the tree was one of my favorite memories with my children. 

These days, I put up my tree WEEKS before Christmas; I don't dare have a real one. We would have a real fire hazard on our hands if I had a real tree up for two months.  

During the fall and winter holidays, I fill our home with the smells of candles scented with cinnamon, evergreen, and pumpkin, and I wallow in the smells of dinner simmering on the stove, or baked goods coming out of the oven.

In the spring and summer, I love smelling the tropical scents of citrus fruits and coconut. Light floral smells, and anything that reminds me of summer tantalize my senses.

Whenever someone comments on the pleasant fragrances coming from my kitchen, it reminds me to fully dwell in the moment, and appreciate it for what it is.  My home smells like love, and the scent of today will be the memory of tomorrow.

*Goodbye, Virginia!

As I watched the sun come up in the east, I realized I would be leading the sun home as I traveled back to Utah on Southwest Airlines.  I watched out the plane window as the treetops became smaller and faded from view, and finally closed my shade so that I could rest.

We had gotten up at 3:30 to make it to the airport shortly after 4:30.  At the time, I was worried Bridger would think I was crazy for making these travel arrangements the way I did, but when we touched down at the Salt Lake City terminal before 11:00, I was grateful to be home and still have energy to tackle the laundry that would spew forth from our luggage.

The week had been eventful:  sightseeing in D.C. with my youngest,  family dinners, a day at the spa with the bridesmaids, my sister's wedding, and a potluck luncheon with my high school girlfriends.

Our family is divided up across three states:  Idaho, Utah, and Virginia.  I love all of these people so much  We're all a little silly, slightly sarcastic, and very loving.  It was a wonderful gathering everywhere we went,  with hugs, laughter, and camaraderie.  It was so good to be "home."

It seems we would just light somewhere, start to get settled in, and it was time to take off for our next destination and event.  There is a part of me that realizes it is good to leave while still wanting more. That's so much better than the opposite:  being somewhere you wish you were not.  I never experience THAT when I go home, but there are so many places I wish I were.

Now that I have slept in my own bed with my  Boston Terrier snuggled in by my side, I am glad to be where I am this morning.  I woke up to clear skies and dry air and cool temperatures.  This southern girl has called Utah home for over three decades now.  The desert is mine now, but I'm always grateful for a trip to the oasis that is Virginia, for the people and my memories of that beautiful state made me who I am today.

Goodbye, Virginia, until my next trip "home."