All The Small Things

March 23, 2011

It never fails to amaze me at how some things, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential can bring with it a host of memories or emotions in a person.  Our senses, our major connection to the world around us, can create triggers, set in motion a cascading effect of neurons, impulses, echoes of times past.  Open a jar of Play-Doh and our first response is usually to take a whiff.  That distant, vanilla cookie scent, no matter what color it might be, is always there.  But associated with that is playing with it as a child.  Creating crude figures, really little more than a winding snake shaped into “legs” and “arms,” a little round head.  If you were really lucky and had a press, you could shape it into something more distinct.  Maybe it turned into something resembling food.  Or it became the “hair” to the little plastic figures in another set.  Of course, once you started to mix all the colors, it became impossible to separate.  Reds became purple as blues and greens mixed in.  Yellow turned into a rainbow swirl.  And of course, mom would beg you to put it all back into the little tub.  Sure enough, there was always a stray bit that managed to work its way into the carpet.  And all the while, that faint cookie smell was always there. 

The waxy smell of opening a brand new box of crayolas was a distinctive joy.  And if I were lucky enough to get that big box of 64, oh boy!  The sharpener in the back that I'd use just to bring out a point, even if they didn't need it. 

For years, my dad would use Brut aftershave and Speedstick deodorant.  Both were green, now that I think about it.  But, I always think of my dad whenever I see them sitting on the aisle in the stores.  Their distinctive smell reminding me of a time when my dad was the biggest, strongest man I knew.  Someone I looked up to… 

As I was growing up and he worked for Patti-Port, he started to become a delivery driver for them towards the end of his employment there.  Driving out to their satellite facilities in Indio or Saticoy once every few months to pick up awnings.  I was probably 9 or 10 at the time when he started taking me along for the ride.  I didn’t know much about it other than it took me out of school for the day, so I was all excited about it.  I slept most of the drive, of course.  Thinking back, there were a handful of times when he asked me to go with him during my summer break and I didn’t want to go.  It was Summer, I didn’t need an excuse to get out of class for the day!  30 years later, I wish I hadn’t avoided those trips.  I wish I had stayed up with him on those drives.  I wish I had more memories of him when he was still young and strong.  Now, when I think of my dad, I mostly see a shell of the man he once was.  His diabetes has taken such a toll on his frame, slowly eating him away.  His attitude and fire are still there in his heart but the body is no longer able. 

I don’t see him as often since moving out here.  And the days I do make it out to visit, it’s usually just sitting in the living room, quietly watching TV.   Sometimes my sister’s two boys will start to play with us, if they’re not napping.  But typically, we just sit. 

And I always wonder…  and wait…  and hope it doesn’t come