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Driving toward the base recently, I was hit with an awful odor. I thought it might be related to the record-breaking spring heat wave we experienced in the Northeast, but then I remembered. Oh yeah; it’s just the sewage treatment plant. I braced myself for an involuntary memory.
For me, scents often trigger associative thoughts and feelings. For example, the smell of aftershave makes me think of the television program “Hee Haw,” a country music-themed variety show that aired on CBS when I was a kid.
One might wonder why Buck Owens and Roy Clark “a-pickin and a-grinnin” in a fake cornfield would spring from the smell of cheap men’s cologne. There’s usually a rational explanation for strange things, and this peculiar connection is no exception.
“Hee Haw” aired on Saturday evenings at 7 p.m., right after I’d been fed a Swanson TV dinner, given a Mr. Bubble bath and parked in front of the console television in my pajamas. But also, 7 p.m. on Saturday was when that my father — doused in Aqua Velva — and mother left me with a babysitter to go out for the night.
Other aromas release echos of the past. Chlorine’s acrid odor evokes the community pool of my youth. I see the rubber coin purse holding my snow-cone money. I hear the lifeguard’s whistle and call, “Clear the pool for Adult Swim!” I feel the painful snap of my brother’s damp Budweiser towel, rolled into a rat tail and whipped at me.
A tangy-toasty waft of sourdough bread reminds me of being pregnant in our first base house on Fort Ord in California. In that drab Army-brown house at the top of Ardennes Circle, I cracked open the gingham Better Homes and Gardens cookbook I received as a wedding present and made classic dinners like pot roast and stuffed shells, often serving small “bake and serve” sourdough loaves with dinner. I can still hear the rush of wind through the eucalyptus tree outside the sliding glass door, and see Francis’ teal green Saturn “Twin Cam” sedan in the driveway. I feel the frumpy maternity clothes I bought at Mervyn’s department store, and the weight of the nine-pounder in my womb.
My tendency to connect scents to the past isn’t uncommon; it’s how human brains work. According to Harvard neuroscientists, smell and memory are closely linked because odors are sensed by the olfactory bulb, and go directly to the amygdala and hippocampus where memories and emotions are stored. Common smells that trigger childhood memories include crayons, cut grass, honeysuckle, tobacco, Play Doh, charcoal grills and Vicks VapoRub.
It’s no wonder a whiff of sewage triggers a very specific recollection for me. When I met my Navy husband, I was a new attorney in a Pittsburgh litigation firm, being assigned to cases that no one else wanted. One was an engineering malpractice case involving a Pennsylvania sewage treatment facility. I attended depositions and document searches on site at the plant, where the foul stench of raw sewage permeated my dry-clean-only suits, my hair, my briefcase and my car.
Now, when I detect the pungent odor of sewage, I’m instantly back at the plant, struggling to breathe through my mouth. I see the filthy “plant cat” sleeping in its hairy office chair. My face contorts into the same grimace I had while searching through odiferous files. I re-experience my pity for the employees, who seemed immune to the unbearable stink of the place.
I’ll never forget the plant foreman inviting me to their end-of-summer company picnic on the plant grounds. He enthusiastically told me about the annual “tomato battle” made possible by plants that grow wild from undigested seeds in the sludge beds. I politely declined.
To make this vivid association even more unpleasant, I also recall the humiliation I felt when, after a month or so of arriving back at the law firm feeling like I needed to be bathed in acid or set on fire, my colleagues gave me the unfortunate nickname, Sister Sludge.
I still let my nose take me back to the past. Unless Memory Lane passes by a sewage treatment plant, then I definitely take a detour.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
