Sensory Perception
Photo Courtesy of Bing Hui Yau
At a recent family gathering, it was suggested we describe our fondest memory of a smell, an olfactory exercise in conjuring stories from the past. It led to numerous childhood thoughts of both meaningful and whimsical moments in our lives, each standing the test of time. A warm feeling, a good laugh, a realization that something happened we never knew about, many of those anecdotes slightly adjusted our opinions — or greatly expanded our respect — for those who participated.
Would you like to share a moment for Candor? Simply type up a memory related to smell, or sight, or sound, or touch, or taste (gotta be my favorite), or, mix and match the five senses in your tale. Send it to editor@candor.news
In the meantime, here’s my attempt to include all five senses (risk-taker!) at once:
Grandmas are gold, and my mother’s mother, Velma, was a kind and caring person. When it came to her grandchildren, the word spoiled doesn’t begin to paint the picture of how each of us were treated. In the front yard, one night after a meal of homemade, gravy-style chicken noodle soup (poured over mashed potatoes, of course — how many starches are too many for a kid?), my brother, Jeff, and two cousins, Kent and Troy, headed to the front yard to engage in a friendly, yet intensely competitive, game of wiffle ball. Summer’s heat was fading, but the humidity still forced sweat as we wielded the thin yellow bat, craving the dull thud of plastic on plastic, and the attempt to round the bases, which were a decorative rock, a stick-drawn square in the dirt driveway, a tree, and the imagined spot that became home plate. The ball stung, briefly, when an opponent drilled you en route to the next base, but as much as you hated to admit it, you were out — considerably more satisfying to defenders than a forced ending when touching a base. We were too young to talk much smack — that changed soon — but for now, just a feeling of raw competition was reason enough to look forward to our time together.
Grandma eventually called us in, it was getting “too dark.” After each game, a fairly accurate accounting of the score was agreed upon, and best performances, and of course, winners, were declared. It was then that we soaked in one last round of approval from the cicadas, complained that there was still enough light, and, as always, were overruled and headed inside. The house was too small in every way, yet inviting, somehow large enough to at one time contain a family of seven. Each of us took a turn cooling ourselves at the family room’s window air conditioning unit, and then landed on a an outdated upholstered couch, or simply sat on the creaky, wooden floor. Grandma scooped out small bowls of ice cream, frequently peach, that she’d hand cranked, or too often for her liking, store bought. Though oddly adorned, the living room reflected a collection of misfit items that created a child’s quintessential environment: board games, toys (one, a metal device that spun a dial which, when settled, displayed each state’s capital), a TV, and random art and knick-knacks on the walls and furniture, typically nature-themed. My grandfather’s chair sat front and center facing the TV, and when alive, his pipe rack, along with a pouch or two of tobacco, rested behind it. Like my grandmother, he was a kindly soul, and his spirit remained in that room, greeting me each time I entered.
A train whistle, maybe a 100 feet away, signaled it was entering the crossing at Dodge Street, and soon, the doorbell rang on two occasions, my Aunt Jackie to fetch away my cousins, and my mother to take us back home. When could we come back? Pleeeeeeease?