Potent Past Potion

It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Instead of heading straight down the center of town, she swerved and turned right, into the small shop parking lot. “Just a peek. Even though I am broke,” she thought. The tiny bell jangled as the door creaked open and annoyingly announced her presence, though she preferred to keep a low profile. So much to look at - smells filling every pore - all different kinds of smells, each fighting ferociously against one another for prominence in her nose. Candles with scent, soap, linens, and knick-knacks that promised to fill every corner of her house. Too many things to look at and dream about and she passed them all by. She was a sensible and practical shopper, not prone to unnecessary purchases. She wound her way through the over-priced, but truly unique, clothing section and unexpectedly happened upon the perfume - the queen’s library of scents – it drew her in at neck-break speed. Spray, dab, sprinkle, smell. None quite the one she remembered and craved. Then one lift of a bottle cap, a longing sniff, and there it was, surprising and astounding. Finally, after two decades of looking, searching, longing, the smell that brought it all back. The smell of childhood and unbridled freedom.

She grew up in a family of do-it-yourself-ers. Her grandfather’s family, with determination and pride, traveled from the South by horse and wagon to the West, hoping for a new life during the Great Depression. Having to learn how to do everything yourself was not a luxury; it was a necessity. And the self-sufficiency was passed down to her family. The ultimate lesson was never to hire anyone to do something that you could do yourself. Make it up, figure it out, screw it up and start over. Use common sense, and talk to yourself out loud even when people think you are nuts. Swear, stomp, throw something, but never give up. Mud and dirt were the best teachers on the planet. Gardening, carpentry, painting, electrical repairs (hoping to not get zapped), irrigation pipes, shoveling horse shit, shoveling cow shit, shoveling dog shit (straight from hell), sucking in revulsion, and going on. Her father was a hunter and a fisherman; a handyman-extraordinaire. He had skills like none other. Taught his kids everything he knew; had a short fuse when things broke down, though he never took it out on them. Got mad at a mechanical monster once and threw a screwdriver just as she opened the shop door. With a twang, it stuck in the door frame next to her head. Being a redhead, she screwed up her face, hot with fury, and shouted “What the hell is wrong with you?!” He shot an arrow once and hit the bull’s eye, then immediately drew another arrow, and shot the first one, split it right down the shaft. Even after he accidentally put his eye out with a metal strap, he just switched eyes and went on bow hunting. Never heard him ever complain about his eye. She wanted a pickup truck when she learned to drive; no car would do ‘cause she was a tomboy. He towed an old piece of crap truck home, that had been sitting in a friend’s pasture for years, and they rebuilt the entire thing together, piece by piece. Took three, long years, but so worth it. Then he taught her how to shift without using the clutch. He practically lived to fish. He could catch the only fish in the lake; if there was just one available. He took all the kids fishing, nearly every weekend; she hated eating fish but loved to catch them. He knew every hook, bait, and line, and the circumstances that called for each. He had the touch of a magician; coaxing and teasing the fish ‘til they jumped on the hook in sheer delight. Used to amaze her, and, when she could not catch anything, rather irritate her no end. Her mother was a city girl who melded into country life, like gold when it was melted and poured into a mold. Mother learned everything from her mother-in-law; Grandma was the most kindly and patient woman God ever made. The Mother taught her kids what she knew; preserving food, baking, sewing, knitting, weeding, cleaning, and the value of good, hard work. She was big on people and there were constant pinochle card games on weekend nights. Loud and fun, though kids were banned, and they snuck down the banister and hid in the broom closet with the door cracked open to hear the rancorous laughter and catch the cheaters. Mother tried to transform her into a proper girl but once she hit upon the teen years, she flat-out refused to wear dresses. She never liked the women’s work, though her mother tried; it seemed so lowly and mundane and kept her inside, away from the luscious, blossom-scented east winds and teasing, burning sun. Independence and self-sufficiency burned in her veins, like a strong, clear vodka, gulped too quickly. And oh, the smells! The mixture of scents that did not jive, but somehow belonged together anyway. That is what the perfume was to her. It was the feel of warm, promising soil, lifted from the garden and sent to sift through her fingers. The feel of a good horse beneath her; leather creaking, stirrup hitting sagebrush and sending an acrid, dusty smell wafting to her nostrils. Wildflowers a-bloom lining the sides of the riding trails; so tiny they could barely be seen but so intricately detailed they seemed to scream of a Creator. She loved to ride in the long, cool summer evenings, even past dark, laying back on the horse’s rear and looking up at the skies, oblivious to a potential fall to the dust. And dreaming, always dreaming. Always wondering, looking to the skies, and imagining all that was out there. What is known and oh, so much, that if not. The green, damp earth, as she lay on the grass, and contemplated the clouds, designing animals, imagining monsters, and picking out other totally silly and inappropriate shapes. The scent of the rabbit pens holding her undesirable and depressing dinner. And all the smells and memories melded together into one magic potion; a potion so strong that it dragged an entire childhood in its wake.