Winter Scents

The snow tumbles down fast and furious. This is not the state where I spent my youth. A hundred miles really doesn’t matter, though.

But, winter is different now. It has to do with my age. I now hibernate and watch the snow from behind glass. A fire burns in the corner fireplace.  A cat snores on the couch.

When I was young? I was out in that snow. I played in it. My friends banged on the back door with their fists enclosed in mittens. We sledded. We built snowmen. We constructed igloos and snow walls to protect us during snow ball fights. We walked back and forth to school in it.

I worked in the snow. I delivered newspapers ever single day except for Sunday. On really cold snowy days? I would count steps. It took thousands of them to get me there and then back home.

I remember the silence of snow on those walks. I remember snow down my boots. I remember chaffed wrists where my mittens didn’t reach the sleeves of last winter’s coat covered in newsprint.

But, I mostly remember smells.

Newsprint gives off an odor when snowflakes touch the page. A canvas bag protects the product on the walk……..but, you eventually have to pull the paper from the bag …..brush the snow off of the mail box……..to insert it.

We picked up our bundles of newspapers in a store parking lot. The paper boys (and girl) would stomp our feet to keep warm. The parking lot lights turned on at dusk and brightened the world. The light spilling from the lamps also illuminated the amount of snow coming down.

That’s when I would find the quarter at the bottom of the woolen mitten that my grandmother had knitted for me. I’d walk an extra hundred steps to the doughnut shop.

Now, that’s a smell I remember. I’d come out of the cold into a store enclosed by sweating glass walls. The scent of cold would immediately be taken over by the sweet smell of the hot chocolate and glazed doughnut that a quarter could buy.

Thousands of more steps with a heavy canvas bag full of newspapers. Every house would lighten the load. A slide down the hill that I lived on………..all to the smell of wood smoke pouring out of hundreds of chimneys.

The stomping of my boots on the back steps would tell my mother that I was home. She’d open the kitchen door and point to the winter mat inside on the kitchen floor.

Smells of dinner filled the air. It might be fish sticks and french fries. Beef stew and corn bread. Corn chowder. Or, only the smell of heat coming out of the radiators if my Daddy was out picking up the pizza on a Saturday night.

I would stand on that mat and divest myself of all the outdoor clothing covered in snow. I laid my mittens and hat on top of my coat. My boots and two pairs of woolen socks would lie on top of that. And, then ……….I’d carry it all to the basement.

Clumps of snow would be shaken off of the woolen items. It would hit the furnace with a hiss. Everything lie around or on top of that furnace to dry.

I remember the smell of wet woolen mittens steaming on top of that furnace very vividly.

Dinner at the little kitchen table as I watched the redness leave my fingers. While my toes stopped tingling. And, then I’d hear a gentle tap at the metal kitchen door.

I’d get up and let my beautiful golden cat in from her snowy adventures. She’d twirl around my ankles. I’d lift her up and bury my nose in the softest fur I’d ever felt. I’d take a deep breath and savor the smell of winter and the outdoors on my cat.

Now, that! Was my favorite winter scent of all.

Getting It Right On Valentine’s Day

Tension fills the air.  The long line of men are stiff with apprehension.  They’re afraid to go home

Why?

It’s Valentine’s Day.

The guys wait patiently in line.  They shift from one foot to the other.   They take off their coats and cling to them.  They’re sweating even though the door opening and closing makes the air in the candy store a bit frigid around the ankles.

I look up from the cash register and say “Next, please.”

The man at the front of the line acts a little hesitant.  He wants to ask me a question.  But, he’s terrified I’ll say no.  He asks anyways.  Because?  He wants to go home.  To his wife.  On Valentine’s Day.

“Do you have any chocolate covered strawberries left? ” he whispers in a hiss.  “Did I have to call and reserve them?  Please…………dear God!………….Please, say you have some.  I bought them at the grocery store last year instead of here……………she didn’t talk to me for two days………….do you?”

I take two steps to the right so he can see into the back room.  The back room that is covered in chocolate strawberries.  If there is a flat surface?  It’s full of strawberries wearing little coats of chocolate.

“I have plenty of them.  Dark…….milk…….white……….mixed?” I say to urge a response out of him.

He needs to be urged because his body is leaning against the counter.  Relief has left his legs weak.

Poor soul.

Oh, right now you think I’m exaggerating.  Just playing it up to tell a story.  I’m not.  Ask anyone that sells flowers……………or champagne………………jewelry………….or candy ………….on Valentine’s Day.

Valentine’s Day holds little meaning to me.  I enjoyed creating shoe box mailboxes when I was a kid in grammar school.  I liked the little cards that all my classmates stuffed into that box on February 14th just fine.  What I never liked?  The way we were forced to give a token of love and esteem to everyone back than.

Whether you liked them or not.

I especially don’t care for the pressure some adults put on each other now.  For some reason it’s just the men that are terrified of this holiday ………….they don’t quite understand having to prove their love.  Prove their love by handing over a package with a bow on it.  A card with lovey dovey prose.

And, failing miserably year after year.

I don’t notice women in line trembling in fear of getting it wrong.  The women are waiting at home …………………………practicing their looks of disappointment in the mirror.

Perhaps, this is a female conspiracy.  Maybe, I didn’t get the memo.

The men in line are carrying dozens of roses.  Bags from expensive jewelry stores hang around their wrists.  I notice this because it hampers them when they reach for their wallets.

One man gets my opinion.

“So……………I have roses.  Green earrings…………..I think they may be emeralds.  I don’t know.  She circled them on an advertisement.  She stuck it in my wallet a week ago.  I think they’re emeralds……………….chocolate covered strawberries.  A card.  Do you think that covers it?” he asks.

“Or, should I get a pound of truffles too?” he wants to know.

“Have you been a bad bad boy?” I ask.

“NO!” he yells as all the men waiting in line laugh at our conversation.

“I think the emeralds put you over the top.  You can breathe.  You can go home in peace.  Just remember to sign the card.” I say to him right before I ask who is next.

“What does your husband get you for Valentine’s Day?” asks the next man in line.

“Oh, one year he bought me a crock pot cook book.” I answer as I put in his order for strawberries.

The group of men go silent……………….I have just taken their breath away.

“How long was he in the dog house for that one?” a man towards the back asks.

“He wasn’t.  I was learning to cook and I quite liked the cook book.” I answered.

Now all these men look at me in awe.  It doesn’t matter if I’m twenty years too old for them or twenty years too young.

They think I’m beautiful.  Perhaps, the perfect woman.  I am told that my husband is a very lucky man.

They have all loosened up a little by this time.  The tension had left them all when I had showed them a room full of dipped strawberries a few minutes before.

“What do you think he’ll give you this year?” asks another man.

“Well, when I get home he’ll have dinner ready for me.  I think it’ll probably be chicken parm because that’s my favorite.  He may have remembered to buy a card.  Or, not.  Flowers or not.  It doesn’t matter.” I say as I put a box into a bag.

“It doesn’t matter.” a chorus of male voices repeat in awe.

“No, because he has treated me like a queen every single day for forty years now.  Because my favorite moment of the day is when he comes home from work.  Sometimes, I even remember to tell him that.” I explain.

“Today!  I’ll remember to tell him.”