To be an immortal

March can be the most female of all the months of the year in our valley. She is forever changing her mind, one day warm and inviting, the next cold and frosty. But this past week she smiled on us, the sun came out and the wind blew warm. The kind of day that is made for old men to sit in dirty lawn chairs, their faces turned up to the light and dogs to lay groaning on the warmest section of the sidewalk. It was a mild winter and I knew that the weather would not last because March is a tease unlike her sister April, so I decided to go for a drive.

Taking a short cut down an old farm lane I noticed a bright green clump of plants set in the middle of the winter killed weeds. I stopped the truck and made my way to the edge of the ditch that bordered the dirt road. Buried in the weeds was the remains of an old farm house that had long ago fell in upon it's self. Even houses are subject to the laws of gravity. Next to the old porch the green leaves of daffodils had caught my eye.

How many times had these flowers bloomed in their life time? Who planted them? When did they plant them? Some people believe that immortality is having kids. That as long as your children live, a part of you lives too. Others believe that it our accomplishments that give us a measure of immortality. That our deeds and sins live long after we have past beyond the veil.

All people understand directions. We all have the normal directions, up, down, left, right, North, South, East, and West. But in the valley where I live we have directions that only the locals would understand. We have up river, down river ( not to be confused with down the crick) , up the hill, down the hill, and up over the hill. In my little town, over the hill, there is a lumpy old football field. The last remaining evidence that once upon a time this town had a high school with a football team. The goal posts have long since disappeared and the concrete stadium is slowly crumbling into the ground. The only living things to enjoy the view from the top seats are poison ivy vines and the mice that live under them.

At the far end of the field is a lone brick wall that has no use except to hold a chipped white marble tablet that was dedicated to a favorite teacher by the class of 1960 whatever. Buried in the uncut grass there is a final faded line, "You will be remembered forever" So much for deeds.

I believe that immotality was found by the farmer's wife that planted the Daffodil bulbs long ago. The pride that was felt for the farm and the love of the land is forgotten. The barn is gone, the house and the generations that lived and died in it are gone. The hard winters, hot summers, struggles to to make ends meet have all disappeared. But the faith in the promise held by those bulbs and the faith of a simple woman still grow. Every spring her hopes push their way up through the soil to meet the sun and prove to the world she was there. Her labors still bring beauty into the world. That is true immortality.

Smells in the wind

Experts tell us that the sense of smell triggers more memories then any of the other senses. I think they may be right but I would need to qualify that comment. It may trigger childhood memories that anyone would remember, but some smells would be only for your specific area of the world.

The smell of coal smoke and the musty smell of the Ohio River take me back to a cold October day in the early 70's. Sitting on a river bank throwing rocks in the water and watching barge boats push up stream against the current. The wind blew rustleing through the leaves that still clung to the trees.

The smell of a Bologna sandwich on white bread brings back a Batman lunch box with a matching thermos that held the best tasting chocolate milk. That thermos would keep it cold all day in its glass liner but if you dropped it you had chocolate glass brittle.

The smell of old apples in the fall. That sweet-sour smell of field apples going bad in the high grass as I explored through the woods with my dog Princy. He was my friend and I brought him along to fight off any imaginary bears that we came upon.

The minty smell of white paste and the aroma of crayons brings back a memory of the first day of 2nd grade. New pencils and the loud CRACK of a three ring binder. Floor polish. Does anything in the world smell like the shavings from a pencil sharpener?

Lysol. My mom standing by the kitchen sink drinking a Pepsi after scrubbing the floor with red Lysol. Her hair up in a bee hive hair-do.

Playdough. Playing by myself in my room with a paper can of Play dough. It had a metal lid that never sealed and you never got a second chance to play with it.

The smell of a cap gun. Playing army with a group of boys hiding behind the hedges and firing off long strips of red caps. Arguing for hours over who had "got" who and not really caring!

There must be thousands of smells that are stored in our brains. First girlfriends perfume, the smell of your first car interior, Grandpa's tobacco, and Grandma's soup. These are all kept safe in our memory and in our hearts.