Memory and smell are twisted together in funny ways, don't you think?
We lived in the small Georgia town of Perry when I was four years old. I think we lived there less than a year, though to my 4-year-old mind it seemed longer. Funny, but I have many distinct(though possibly faulty - I was only four, after all) memories of our time in Perry, Georgia. For example, my infamous tricycle ride to town and my subsequent run-in with the law over that little escapade.
The smell of daffodils recalls another Perry memory. It was early spring. The family piled into the old green Chevy station wagon and headed out to Mr. Cotton's place. Mr. Cotton, Daddy's boss, had a big old house and some land outside of Perry proper. When we arrived at Cotton's on that spring day, we were treated to a wondrous site: a big field of bright yellow daffodils. Daffodils, daffodils, daffodils - all spread out before us.
Ah, but things got even better. The grown-ups let us loose on that wide yellow carpet to pick as many daffodils as we wanted. Can you imagine anything better than that? Human beings are never given permission to pick flowers; maybe one or two here and there, but never as many as we want. Usually just the opposite, in fact: "Do Not Pick The Flowers!" But that one time, that one spring day, we were told to go forth and pick to our hearts' content.
Well, it was a big field, and even four active children picking everything in sight didn't make much of a dent in the daffodil-carpet. Armloads of flowers, the musky scent of the yellow blossoms, the joy of getting to do the usually-forbidden - well, it was a memorable experience.
Now, I might have the story wrong. Maybe it wasn't Mr. Cotton's place. Maybe the field wasn't that big. Maybe we were told we could pick no more than 5 or 10 flowers. I'm sure Big Bro - who is much, much older than I - will correct me.
But I know it was daffodils, because every time I get a whiff as I pass a flower stand or sit next to a big bowl of them, I'm four years old and picking all the daffodils I want.
We lived in the small Georgia town of Perry when I was four years old. I think we lived there less than a year, though to my 4-year-old mind it seemed longer. Funny, but I have many distinct(though possibly faulty - I was only four, after all) memories of our time in Perry, Georgia. For example, my infamous tricycle ride to town and my subsequent run-in with the law over that little escapade.
The smell of daffodils recalls another Perry memory. It was early spring. The family piled into the old green Chevy station wagon and headed out to Mr. Cotton's place. Mr. Cotton, Daddy's boss, had a big old house and some land outside of Perry proper. When we arrived at Cotton's on that spring day, we were treated to a wondrous site: a big field of bright yellow daffodils. Daffodils, daffodils, daffodils - all spread out before us.
Ah, but things got even better. The grown-ups let us loose on that wide yellow carpet to pick as many daffodils as we wanted. Can you imagine anything better than that? Human beings are never given permission to pick flowers; maybe one or two here and there, but never as many as we want. Usually just the opposite, in fact: "Do Not Pick The Flowers!" But that one time, that one spring day, we were told to go forth and pick to our hearts' content.
Well, it was a big field, and even four active children picking everything in sight didn't make much of a dent in the daffodil-carpet. Armloads of flowers, the musky scent of the yellow blossoms, the joy of getting to do the usually-forbidden - well, it was a memorable experience.
Now, I might have the story wrong. Maybe it wasn't Mr. Cotton's place. Maybe the field wasn't that big. Maybe we were told we could pick no more than 5 or 10 flowers. I'm sure Big Bro - who is much, much older than I - will correct me.
But I know it was daffodils, because every time I get a whiff as I pass a flower stand or sit next to a big bowl of them, I'm four years old and picking all the daffodils I want.
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