What You Read

It is what you read when you don't have to

  that determines what you will be when you can't help it.

~Oscar Wilde~

Scents From the Past

There are many things that pull up memories:  sights, sounds, songs, facial expressions and mannerisms of people who remind us of someone we once knew.  But, for me, nothing conjures up those scenes and emotions from the past like scents. 

I remember the mildew smell of the old patchwork quilt on which my siblings and I rested in the yard during those hot, steamy days of summer; the smell of bacon and onions wafting through the house as wilted lettuce or spinach sizzled in Mother's big iron skillet; the scent of freshly laundered clothes rising from the ironing board as she moved the iron back and forth across them.

I remember the smells of homes of those closest to me:  My great-grandmother Elsey's living room (vanilla-scented smoke from Paw Paw's pipe) and her kitchen (Lux soap, which lay on top of her skirted sink). Maw Maw George's house (floor wax), her dresses (that fresh-from-the-clothesline scent), her Christmas fruitcakes (rum).  And her yard (Honeysuckles, which ran from the house and all the way down the lane to the mail box).

I remember the scent of Tweed perfume that rose from Maw Maw Wilson's dresser at which I spent much time gazing into the wavy, tilted mirror; her cold hall in the wintertime (wood burning); Irish lace curtains: (dust, and something pleasant, which I'm still unable to identify), and her upstairs bedrooms (mothballs). 

I remember the deep, mysterious scent of the earth after a summer rain; the scent of moist soil as Daddy broke up the ground for his garden each spring; the scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with the smell of gasoline as he mowed the yard each week; the scent of wood shavings as I stood at his knee watching him plane the wood.  (I played with them, amazed that the shavings looked just like my curly hair.)

I could go on forever.

When I was around eleven, as I was helping Maw Maw George clean out her closets, she pulled out a big box stuffed with all kinds of things.  One thing that really caught my eye was a tiny crown-shaped perfume bottle with a unique stopper. Maw Maw told me it was a Christmas gift from Uncle Tom who lived in Detroit.  I had never seen a perfume bottle like it.

I pulled out the stopper and sniffed it.  Although the bottle was empty, the scent still lingered:  floral, romantic, light and airy.  I couldn't get enough.  I sniffed the bottle over and over.

Although I didn't know the name of the perfume (don't guess I thought to look at the bottom of the bottle!), that light, romantic scent stayed with me.  So after I got my allowance the following Saturday, I made a bee-line to the dime store.  I didn't expect to find that exact scent, but I hoped to find something that smelled similar.

No such luck.  All I found was Blue Waltz and Evening in Paris.  Blue Waltz smelled cheap.  Evening in Paris smelled nice, but I didn't have enough money.  It cost ninety-eight cents.

After I became a teenager and had long forgotten about the crown-shaped bottle, I went through many perfumes:  all the Avon perfumes:  Here's My Heart, Topaz, Somewhere, Woodhue (after saving my allowance for a month), and a few others.  Back then, there wasn't the array of perfumes that are offered today, and stars had not yet begun to sell their 'signature' scents (which, for some reason, irritates me no end!).

When I got married, I was still wearing Avon perfumes.  But after I began my first full-time job in Chicago and had money to burn ;), I branched out, trying Chantilly (ugh!), Taboo (too strong), White Shoulders (too heavy).  I even tried Joy, which was then advertised as the most expensive perfume in the world.  I didn't like it either.

Then one day, while sampling one scent after another at the perfume counter of Marshall Field's, I came across a tiny bottle shaped like a crown.  Not the fancy bottle with a unique top like Maw Maw's, but crown-shaped, nonetheless.  A thought ran through my mind:  Could it be?  Could it possibly be?

The instant I sniffed it, I knew it was.

The name of the perfume was Prince Matchabelli's Wind Song.  It has been my everyday perfume for many, many years.

I'm told Wind Song doesn't smell the same on everyone; has something to do with body chemistry, experts say.  But I have had many people (mostly men) through the years walk right up and ask me what perfume I'm wearing.  "I'm going to tell my wife to get that perfume!" one gent said; "Ahh...I've never smelled anything like it," said another.  And a coed from ISU once told me I smelled like her grandmother.  "I loved my grandma so much," she said, "And Wind Song makes me think of her."

I've read many reviews on Wind Song, and although many women love it, others say it smells old-fashioned, out of date.  But how can a smell be out of date?  Is the scent of flowers out of date?  Musk?  Spice?  That makes no sense to me. 

Not long thereafter, I discovered Nina Ricci's L'Air du Temps.  A light, airy scent, something like Wind Song (but more expensive), I wear it when I go out in the evenings.  Like Wind Song, the reviews are about the same:  many women love it; others say it smells out of date.  But their opinions make no difference to me.  I doubt that I will find any that suit me better than Wind Song and L'Air du Temps, old fashioned or not.    

"When nothing else subsists from the past,

after the people are dead,

after the things are broken and scattered

the smell of things remain poised a long time,

like souls· bearing resiliently,

on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence,

the immense edifice of memory"

~Marcel Proust~

The Remembrance of Things Past

.

Happy Easter!

Kamy in her Easter frock

Kamryn

Smiling at her Daddy

From the Archives

Several readers told me they have tried to find this essay, which was published a few years ago in Birmingham Arts Journal, but the archives were so confusing that they gave up.  I'm posting it here.  (And thanks for your interest, dear readers!)

The Southern Way

 Brenda Wilson Wooley

(Reprinted from Birmingham Arts Journal)

Many of my favorite writers are Southerners: William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Eudora Welty, Flannery O'Connor, Lee Smith, Anne Tyler.  The list goes on.

Don't get me wrong; I enjoy other writers' work. But you just can’t beat deep, dark stories like Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury;” Tennessee Williams' “A Streetcar Named Desire” and “The Glass Menagerie.” Shocking ones, like Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” sad, tragic ones, like Lee Smith’s “Black Mountain Breakdown.”  And the quirky ones, like Fanny Flagg’s “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café.” 

One of the reasons I enjoy Southern writers’ work is because I identify with them. And although I'm small potatoes compared to the literary giants, we do have some things in common. 

First and foremost, we are Southerners.  We think of ourselves as being from somewhere, as belonging to some place.  Regardless of how far we roam or how long we've lived away, most of us eventually come home. And we are welcomed back with open arms. 

But not without validation.  

When I returned to Kentucky after many years in Illinois, I was met with a little suspicion and a lot of curiosity.  Until they figured out who I was:  "Oh, you're Tommy and Evelyn's oldest girl." "You're Miss Muriel's granddaughter, aren't you?" "I should’ve known you were a Wilson; y'all all look alike!" 

Another tradition of Southerners is storytelling. Our ancestors told stories they never would have been able to write, and I think it was their way of handing over the legacy. 

Like most Southerners, I grew up in a family of storytellers. I loved sitting on the front porch on summer nights listening to my relatives tell one story after another:  a great-grandfather, who walked everywhere he went and had a song written about him (“Walk, Tom Wilson”); a corncob-pipe-smoking great-great grandmother who took off running and hopped on her horse from the rear; neighbor Anna Lee, who baked cakes when she was depressed. Many cakes. All night long.  A distant cousin who strolled into the local truck stop, perched himself on a stool at the counter and leisurely sipped a cup of coffee. (Did I mention he was clad in nothing but a towel?) 

And that is just a drop in the bucket. 

It took the storytellers a long time to get to the point; they were always adding to the story. Or jumping in and telling another story about the person in the story. Which reminds me of writer Barry Hannah's version of the light bulb joke: “How many Southern writers does it take to change a light bulb? Two...one to unscrew it and the other to talk about what a good old light bulb it was!” 

A powerful thread that runs through Southern writers' work is religion. And it's no wonder. We were threatened with hellfire and damnation at every turn. During revival time, the evangelists' screaming sermons echoed in my ears long after souls had been saved from the fiery pits of hell and baptized in Tyler's pond. Even now, when I hear the relentless chant of Katydids on stifling summer nights, frogs croaking, bugs thumping against the window screens, my mind conjures up images of that volcanic lake of fire where one lost soul begged for a drop of water for his parched tongue. 

I was relieved when we left the church after those scary sermons, but a sense of impending loss surrounded me as we drove away. And I still feel that sense of impending loss when I return. My childhood fears coming in on me? Mourning the past? I don't know. All I know is I am unable to leave it all behind, and I am driven to write about it. As Faulkner once said, “The past is not dead. Actually, it isn't even past!” 

Like the fog that hung in the swamps, secrecy shrouded the South in which I grew up. There were things I couldn't quite put my finger on, unspoken things that simmered just beneath the surface. And then there were things everyone knew. But acted as if they didn't.  (As Pat Conroy wrote in “The Prince of Tides,” “That’s the Southern way!”) Things like Anna Lee's nerve problems, Mr. Leonard's “spells,” or Imogene, who "had something to do" with any man who showed an interest.

The adults spoke in low voices when they discussed such things, so I skulked here and there, gathering information. I was fascinated. And a little fearful. But I was thirsty for more, regardless of how horrible it might turn out to be. 

My siblings were also curious, though not as curious as I. We were unable to get any answers, so we were soon joining in. "Guess Mr. Leonard’s having a spell tonight," one of us would say as we drove by his three-story house late at night and saw it all lit up, cars parked haphazardly in his yard. (Neighbors always sped right on over as soon as they got word. His wife needed help; it took several men to hold him down.) 

So how do Southerners deal with such things? We write about the Anna Lees, the Mr. Leonards, the Imogenes. I've written Anna Lee's and Imogene's stories.  And I'm in the process of writing Mr. Leonard's.  Believe it or not, I still don't know what caused his spells. And I don't think anyone else does, either. 

Nevertheless, that metaphor was my identity and love, where my family and community were. It nurtured my imagination as I lolled in the front-yard swing on hot summer days, the scent of fresh-cut hay drifting through the air as the big trucks rumbled past our house; on frosty nights, sitting close to the warm-morning stove, reading. And listening, always listening. To me, there wasn't a better place on earth to grow up. Everything I am is in that land. That place. Those people. 

Southerners seldom lose their sense of humor, even during their darkest hours. I learned at a very young age that even within the most dreadful situations, people continued to say and do peculiar things. My siblings and I were quick to pick up on it, and we sat trembling and stone-faced, stifling our giggles, at every somber occasion.

Just being kids? Maybe. But it might have been our way of dealing with that burden of a religious philosophy that insists that things of this world are evil. And we were evil because we were laughing when we should have been crying. Or, at the very least, acting serious. (I can't say my siblings felt that way. But I know I did. To me, it was not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be endured.) 

There is not much porch talk anymore; most people have no porches. Air conditioning takes us inside during the hot summer nights; television has replaced the storytelling, often portraying Southerners as ignorant, toothless hillbillies who do nothing but feud and swig moonshine. Movies, like “Deliverance” perpetuate that image. 

I resent that classification. I know better. And I guess that is one of the reasons I write about them. Granted, there are odd people in the South, but there are odd people everywhere. It's just that Southern writers feel compelled to write about them. As Flannery O'Connor said, “When I'm asked why Southern writers particularly have a penchant for writing about freaks, I say it's because we are still able to recognize one.” 

Although I prefer the word "eccentric" to "freak," I know what O'Connor means. And I agree with Eudora Welty, who said, “In a way, I think Southerners care about each other, about human beings in a more accessible way than some other people.” 

We do care about all of our people, including the eccentrics.  We celebrate their lives by writing their stories. 

That’s the Southern way.

This Young Kentucky Writer

Gina, Pitty Pat and I had a great time Monday night.  We heard Silas House speak at West Kentucky Community & Technical College.  (Regular readers might remember my post of two or three years ago, Silas House:  A Man With Soulful Eyes, just after Suzanne, Pitty Pat and I met him at the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville.)

I have read all of his books (my favorite is The Coal Tattoo). They are wonderful stories of family, love and loyalty. And very strong female characters.

Silas spoke about method writing and his use of music to get into the minds of his characters.  Later, he took questions from the audience and read passages from Eli the Good and his newest book, Same Sun Here, which he wrote in collaboration with New York City writer Neela Vaswani.

Although we are from opposite sides of the state and he is much younger, there are similarities between us.

We both grew up in storytelling families and lived near our grandparents and other relatives.  We knew everyone in the little communities in which we were born.  He, too, was subjected to hellfire-and-damnation sermons each Sunday morning and grew up obsessing about the Rapture. 

I wrote about my experiences in my short story, Lost, which will appear in the September issue of Barely South Review.  I worried incessantly about the day when I would be thrown into the fiery pits of hell where I would burn forever and ever without one drop of water for my parched tongue.  And I suspect Silas did the same.

Silas House is a wonderful human being and very talented.  I predict we will hear much more from this young Kentucky writer in the years to come.     

Kamryn Elizabeth

A baby girl is wonderful
A very special part
Of all the hopes, dreams and plans
We cherish in our hearts.