The Ol’ factory Where Ol’ Memories are Tucked Neatly Away
Now that I am a middle-aged grandmother, I oftentimes review the hollowed caverns of my decrepit mind and re-examine the things that stand out to me. Thankfully, when I think of something from my past it is always tied completely to a smell, which rises to the surface for me to follow it like a track of footprints toward a warm cabin full of memories in a snowy wood.
My grandmother lived in Brooklyn on East 15th Street and Avenue M. Her house was the place I wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world, mainly because she lived there. Life at 1365 was warm, loving, safe, and secure. Reminiscing about the days when I hid my face in the folds of her house dress fills me with a bouquet of fragrances that are entrances into my past. Every corner of my grandmother’s house had a distinct aroma, inside and out. Avenue M is a station stop on the BMT Brighton Line of the New York City subway, and it was an elevated el train, level with the second floor and in the backyard of my grandparent’s home. Along with the screeching brakes that we could hear from the station, there was always a layer of putrid diesel fuel, which wafted through air like a backdrop to a play.
Inside the house was a cedar chest, whose smell is seared in my mind. Every time it was opened, which was often as a favorite hiding place for children, the smell filled the cedar paneled porch where we congregated daily to watch the parade of shoppers passing by toward Avenue M. Wood smells had a strong impact on my memory, like the inside of my grandfather’s server where obsessive compulsive disorder reigned supreme. Perfectly stacked piles of sorted coins stacked in rows against the side, money wrappers, rubber bands, paper clips, and piles of newspaper clipping stacked in metal, mesh baskets. Mike’s server was the secret place that I would go to get gold and red paper rings from the cigar cases that I could wear proudly on my all my fingers. All the contents of the chest melded together with the spicy, leathery smell of cigars and dried out cherry wood. My grandma’s end tables were slathered with layers of lemony Pledge, and each drawer held a world of adventure filled with a cacophony of smells. A prominent china closet that housed decks of playing cards when opened its trapped, stagnant air held the fragrant promise of afternoon games of Pinochle and Gold Fish. Not to forget an entire second floor, whose wooden floors filled the air with the antiquated wooden smell of a colonial house I had visited. These floors had never been sanded or shellacked and were responsible for many tears shed as a result of deep, painful splinters in the feet of children who refused, after being repeatedly warned, to “…put their slippers on.”
My grandmother had a fastidious affection for cleanliness. She always wore Avon’s Moon Wind Cologne. She also always had a sparkly dusting of powder between her ample breasts and a stain of red on her pinkie finger from toning down over-zealous lipstick application. I can remember thinking that red pinkie was something I had to have because for me it was a sign of being a true a grown up. Although their modest, attached railroad house didn’t have a shower, that didn’t stop Emma from settling into her clawed bathtub on a daily basis. I can remember walking into that room with steam rising from the water evocative of early morning Farmer Gray cartoons where captives were being cooked in large cauldrons. Only in this human stew, the added ingredient was orange Dial Soap. Until this day if I want to be ferried back to a comforting moment, I buy a bar of Dial Soap and imbibe deeply of the scent of clean that belonged solely to Emma Morrell. A hearty dollop of rose-scented Lustre-Crème in her hair would insure top-to-toe hygiene. She would finish up the session with a once over with minty, Colgate toothpaste and a substantial sprinkle of new born baby-scented Johnson’s Baby Powder and she was done-and-dusted. I can shut my eyes and feel her presence whenever I am lucky to have access to anyone of those toiletry scents.
A special place for me was the kitchen and around an active dining room table encircled with family and multitudes of children with diapers around their necks in place of bibs held in place by bent safety pins. This was where memories were seared into my mind, which defined the most important events from that time. My grandmother never went on vacation, wasn’t one to eat out, so homemade food defined a large portion of her day. My grandfather, who was born in Italy ritualized his meals, chewing each bite 32 times and being the last to finish every meal. The smell of fresh baked, warm whole wheat Italian bread, wine that smelled of cloves and plums, and deeply aromatic espresso coffee identifies him for me. For my grandmother it was a strong pot of Maxwell House coffee with a stained brown glass percolator top perking on a blue-glowing burner that emitted the faint scent of natural gas. This libation would always include some sugar and a splash of creamy Carnation’s Evaporated Milk, which always smelled to me a little like the aluminum can it came in. It was that nutty, buttery smell of Wheatena cereal, cooking on the stove, which would woo me to the kitchen in the morning. When I was with my grandmother, we would start our day by eating our breakfast together, she on one side of the table, I on the other. In my mind’s eye I can still see her gazing up-and-out the kitchen window to watch the Coney Island train toot by as she lifted a steaming spoonful of hot cereal to her mouth. Thinking back, I can still sense her desire for diversion from a life she was trapped in and never realized but longed for with each passing train.
In the afternoon, she would grab a towel and a piece of fresh fruit. We would go to the cedar porch at the front of the house where she would sit in an overstuffed forest green wood and leather rocking chair. She would carefully drape the towel on her lap, slowly undressing the orange or tangerine she was going to share with me. I remember her peeling off every strand of pith from the fruit before separating the sections and handing them to me one-by-one. The comfort and warmth of those moments are precious to my heart. The oils of the rind, coupled together with the juice, would spray my face and the sticky, citrus sweetness, still remains to this day as a taste and smell that never dissipates. The black licorice and chocolate nonpareils that were in the heavy, crystal candy dish drew me in to steal a treat when no one was watching.
I could never forget the aroma of her rich garlic and oregano infused tomato sauce bubbling and splattering all over her white enamel stove. After many hours of simmering, this Sunday staple would then be ceremoniously ladled over Occhi Di Lupo macaroni and sprinkled with a salty, pungent layer of freshly grated Romano cheese whose rind was covered in black lettering that spelled something interesting in Italian. She would bake cinnamon apples with brown sugar and sweet, gummy prunes; German Chocolate cake sprinkled with a crust of dried coconut. The smell of a savory chicken soup overflowing with thin egg noodles would lure legions of children and grandchildren from every corner of Brooklyn. The connection between smell, taste, and love are indelibly cemented as one in my mind. I can smell, literally smell, slightly burnt garlic browning in golden, fruity olive oil, tossed with black olives over pasta and to me; this is a long, lingering hug from my Grandma.
Even the inside of the garage, which didn’t house a vehicle, had a smell of oily sand I can still remember. The basement where my grandfather had his own cave-like bathroom, which didn’t have walls but had a black and white, checkered tile floor, toilet, and sink and smelled to me like powdered Tide, crumbly cement, and Barbasol Shaving Cream. The smell of the small pool that was set up in the yard had a distinct plastic scent, combined together with the smell of cold Brooklyn hose water that still to this day reminds me of summer, as does the aroma of coconut, which was the flavor of the drippy ices I would buy on the ice truck that would pass their house on hot summer nights. The smell of fat, chewy chocolate Tootsie Rolls, salty, crunchy pretzels standing in glass jars with stainless steel lids, and vanilla Egg Creams, as well as Ebinger’s dark chocolate, Brooklyn Blackout cake, the fragrance of Midwood’s famous Cookie’s fresh brewed coffee, the fatty odor of sliced bologna at the butcher and the way the hardware store smelled to me like the hidden treasure of lime and cherry lollipops stashed behind the counter, all this was Avenue M to me…and that is where my grandma lived and where I always wanted to be.
Marcel Proust was right when he opined, “When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered the smell and taste 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.” On afternoons when I am feeling melancholy, or trying to remember details that I don’t want to ever forget about people I loved so very much, I venture out to the ol’ factory where ol’ memories are tucked neatly away.
Tags: 1950's, Brooklyn, Grandma, Memories, smells
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