Sweet smells of the past

Hay, buhay! Our former kasambahay would add, ‘Parang life!’. I wouldn’t utter such corniness. But then, sometimes, when I am alone, it’s nice to just let go of the phrase to release the stress and tension that build up in me.

Today is January 29, many weeks after I made a post in this blog. I really planned to write before about issues, ideas, trivias, or just about small things that happened in my day. My thoughts just flowed out like water from the fountain. But once I was in front of the computer, I could not find the words that would truly represent my thoughts. I was in the dark. I could not write. So I just played some music in the computer – music that somehow brought my mind to the time when I was younger and brimming with vigor and idealism, to the time when the whole of my future was in front of me, when everything seemed easy and possible.

Those were the times when…

I was applying the sunblock lotion Coppertone on my skin even when I was going to the office, or even when I was going to my graduate classes in the evening. I loved the smell of Coppertone. It reminded me of summer, when my friends and I hied off to some remote beaches or mountain destinations we had never been before to enjoy our newfound freedom as well-paid single professionals. In all these outings, I had my Coppertone, more because of the smell than because of its protective formulations. Later, I noticed my male classmates at the Ateneo Graduate School also smelled like me, possibly because they came straight from an outing or because they just liked my smell. The smell was manly and outdoorsy. And psychologists say that we like a smell not because of the smell per se, but because the smell evokes or reminds us of some past experiences or people we like. So for me, nothing beats the smell of Coppertone.

I also like the smell of Crayola, the smell of new plastic, and the smell of newly mowed grass. All these evoked happy memories of my childhood. But of course, I don’t like to smell like Crayola, new plastic, or newly mowed grass.

When I was a child, my parents would bring my siblings and I to the city to purchase school supplies during the opening of school. We bought notebooks, pencils, ballpens, crayons, bags and others. When we arrived home I gathered all my new school supplies and placed them inside my new plastic bag. My notebooks were neatly covered and my crayons were arranged according to color intensity. And the smell was overpowering. Now, when I smelled the crayons of my children, it was dejavu for me.

At the start of school, I was grinning from ear to ear as I met my friends who were all having new bags and new school supplies. Like me. We were all happy. Our notebooks were covered and clean. I didn’t like to write on them lest they would look messy. Our hairs and clothes were neat. Of course, after a week nobody bothered if our hairs and clothes were in disarray. Or whether we even changed clothes at all. But on the first day of class, I pitied anyone without a new bag. For me, I felt very handsome; it seemed all my classmates and teachers were staring at me because I had a new bag. And everybody could tell that my bag was new because the plastic still smelled.

And the newly mowed grass? Every summer during my childhood years, my cousins and I spent our vacation in our grandparents’ farm. We helped in the chores. My male cousins and I were assigned to take care of the carabaos. Every morning we brought the carabaos to the fields to graze. The grasses were still wet with dew. And each time the carabao munched on the grass, I got a whiff of its smell amidst the unadulterated crisp morning air in the far barrios. We sat on the backs of the carabaos, ate some guavas, and told stories until we were called for lunch. After lunch, we listened to noontime drama over the radio. When the drama ended, it was time for us to bring the carabaos to the brook for a swim. We also swam with the carabaos in the black waters of the brook. Possibly, we smelled like the carabaos after we swam but nobody complained. Then back to the pasture. It was a carefree and memorable childhood. And each time I smelled the grass I remembered the uncomplicated days we tended the carabaos.

My mother is 85 years old come Feb 2. And she is in the hospital since December 29 for high blood, pneumonia, and blood infection. She is alright now and might be out of the hospital tomorrow. My experience with my mother in the hospital gave me some thoughts about life. She had her lows in the hospital as her doctor said ‘naga-practice dying sya’. Her children and apos were with her in the hospital. But I noticed that her face really brightened when her cousin and contemporary visited her. Her cousin was 88 years old and still spritely. I was thinking that possibly my mother cannot connect to the younger generation. She wanted to take out all the tubes inserted to her body and just go home. But we won’t allow her. She was practically a prisoner in the hospital room. She was therefore happy to see her cousin because she was reminded of her younger years, when she was without worry, carefree, and could run free in the open spaces of their rural barrio. Too bad that most of her contemporaries are now dead or prisoners of their aged body. I told my children that when I grow old like Nanay they should not bring me to the hospital. I prefer that a doctor just visit me at home. Possibly, I could stay in the hospital when I am already unconscious.

Looking at Nanay, made me want to go back to the past. The past was just simple and worry-free. If only I could turn back the hands of time and savor the sweet smells of the past…

Hay buhay…

By the way HAPPY NEW YEAR sa tanan.

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