The 1980 Porch

People say that memories come back more easily with scents and sounds, than any other senses. I believe that this must be true. Sugar cookies, baking bread, cigar smoke...there are so many. Sometimes as I age, I realize that I have forgotten memories that have been jogged from time to time from a sudden scent in the air or a familiar sound. I cringe when I think of what my children or grandchildren will remember once I'm gone. I hope it isn't burnt cookies or laundry detergent.

I lost both parents rather young, so I cling to pictures of my mom and my dad's bottle of Old Spice. One whiff makes me tear up, so yes, scent is powerful. I also have saved my grandmother's favorite perfume and aging yellow musty doilies that remind me of my great-grandmother. But there are some things that I've forgotten over time. I look at these events, and yes, they are events, as a wonderful opportunity. I use the same Chapstick and Jergen's lotion as they did. I drink the same Lipton's tea and prefer bacon grease in my green beans. I don't know what that says about me, but when someone doesn't have videos, she grasps for what she can.

Every summer from age nine, I spent with my grandmothers, Mammam and Granny, in a small town in southeastern Kansas. It wasn't easy for a tween to live with two old ladies, because as I aged, my priorities and interests changed. Looking back, I feel sorry for both of them. They lived in a community of older people. Each elder lived in his own apartment with a small patio and yard attached. It really was the perfect set up. My grandmothers were the managers of the community who also mowed the entire complex. At age 13, I was a "volunteer" helper. I look back and consider how both of them managed it. Mammam was 55; Granny was 72. And I complained about mowing? We mowed along patios and sidewalks. We mowed around lawn ornaments and bushes. I was tasked with mowing the large open areas, because obviously, I couldn't be trusted to mow around gnomes and rose bushes. Granny was amazing. At 72, she mowed and trimmed grass around her own sidewalks. She actually got on her hands and knees and clipped errant grass and plucked dead heads on flowers and stray branches on bushes.

All of this before 9:00 a.m. or after 8:00 p.m. The Kansas sun was hot and unforgiving. I live in Michigan, so the humidity is sometimes suffocating, but Kansas sun can cause door handles and steering wheels to burn a person in a matter of seconds. Why any town would have playgrounds and parks without shade, no one knew. The community pool was THE center of summer teen activity, and it was where I developed my Kansas friendships. As I aged, my grandmothers allowed me to go to the pool for a few hours a day and the library as many times as I wished for the summer. And every summer I was subjected to more lawn duties.

Without realizing it, I learned a lot about responsibility. I had chores at home during the school year, but this was different. I loved Mammam and Granny unconditionally, and without knowing it, I was learning about their pasts and accepting their values as my own. I see that now. Back then I would have complained about having to sit on the kitchen floor to eat an evening snack so as to keep the living room clean and only being able to sit on one chair in that living room. I now see their flaws and what used to drive me crazy now makes me smile. It's all about perspective.

I find myself now passing on their advice to my own children. I see my daughter doing something and I see how it relates to my own past. I wish I could tell Mammam and Granny.

But time goes by and I don't think about those moments. It takes a visit to our local grocery store, a big box store that has everything. I take a side trip out to the garden center to push my cart around, pretending to shop. I don't actually buy all the flowers or lawn ornaments I want, but I like to dream. There is one flower I avoid. I know it's dumb, but if I think really hard, I can probably come up with an answer.

There are two flowers my grandmothers encouraged to flourish around their patio. I was never allowed to touch the roses, thank goodness, because I'm a failure at growing them now. I hate their thorns. They smell great, but I've had too many painful moments over the years. They came with my house, so it wasn't my choice.

The marigold was their favorite flower. It came in different colors and could grow in the hot sun. I was always given the job of deadheading them when they were tired. I learned some important lessons from this job: caring for flowers is more about constant attention and never ending watering. I avoid the marigold.

It would be easy to say that I didn't like the smell. I didn't like how my fingers smelled after removing the deadheads. I did like how their heads popped off the stems, but they left a stain and a residue.

What isn't easy to describe is what caring for marigolds means to me. I have failed at roses. If I fail at growing marigolds, I would fail them, my loving, picky old grandmothers. I know it's different in Michigan. I am the age Mammam was in 1980; I should be able to figure it all out. I don't want to let them down. I don't keep my house clean enough, nor do I iron my sheets, however, this one venture could disappoint them.

But that scent made me smile. Perhaps it really was the only flower that would flourish on their patio in the hot, hot afternoon sun. Maybe they couldn't grow other flowers, and I never realized it. I do know that the other residents always complimented them on their yard. In 1980, the porch/patio was king. In this case, my grandmothers were the queens.

Next year, I will shop for marigolds. And maybe, I will buy some for my daughter.