Dusty Roads

One

I do not remember when I saw my first dandelion, its happy yellow head waltzing in the wind. There is something about rubbing the flower on my chin and giggling the word butter, but that is where any connection ends.

I do remember my fascination with rocks and particularly agates. Red stones of all sizes and shapes caught my eye, as I traversed the dusty road between my comfortable, suburban ranch home and my best friend Jeannie’s cozy white.

On the way to play, I would look both ways to appease Mommy, then pause a moment, studying where Daddy’s yellow Ford station wagon had churned new pathways. Invariably, a rusty red, translucent agate with fine white, striated lines caught my eye and obviously, I picked it up.

I had no choice but to put it in my mouth; I was six. Having moistened it, I would look again at my treasure. Somehow my spit heightened the colors. I could see even more fine, white lines.

I didn’t know why this happened. Why spit made the stones brighter. I didn’t know why agates contained white stripes. But I would put a couple back in my mouth and chew upon these mysteries as I crossed the empty, lumpy field full of scratchy weeds and thistles, trudging through time to Jeannie’s house. Grinding several agates together with my tongue seemed to inspire my theories.

For example, I compared how swimming beach sand got darker when waves moistened it. Sand appeared to be dull, tan sand until you dug your feet into the wet stuff and stared at the mound on your toes. A myriad of colors, ranging from granite speckled to plain brown appeared like a grounded rainbow.

White quartz sparkled when the sun came from behind a cloud. Daddy had told me about quartz. He knew most things.

But on these walks, I liked my own theories and thoughts. At least until I was done thinking for the day. Stepping into Jeannie’s gravel drive, I’d let go my ponderings, spit out the agates and climb three very tall concrete steps to knock on Jeannie’s screen door. When my mischievous friend opened up and flashed that smirky grin, rocks and theories stuck the landing.

Two

I don’t remember how my brother and I decided dyed carnations, randomly pinned to a shirt or dress during our piano recital, were delicious to eat. I do remember we had a ranking: pink were peppermint; blue, blueberry; green, spearmint. And white were marshmallow, which made them the enviable choice.

Most delicious for me, however, was savoring the moment our yellow Ford station wagon left the echoey recital hall, Mom in the front, passenger seat pointing out our mistakes, before realizing she was being just like her mother and attempting to take it all back, to smooth our ruffled feathers. She didn’t want us to believe she wasn’t proud, she said.

Despite paying attention to the road, Daddy would compliment how we played two notes at once, one with each index finger. He would demonstrate this on the steering wheel, Chopsticks? He would say, and we all would laugh.

But chief among our backseat antics was lording it over our little, annoying sister, who wasn’t forced to take lessons. As payback for smug remarks made during our daily, torturous, half hour practice sessions, my brother and I nibbled our carnations with pure, sullied delight, exclaming, “The blue one is even tastier than last year!” And “Yes, white is the true delicacy, but still, spearmint is out of this world.”

Our sister cried and begged us to share. At which time we reminded her it was our privilege and right to be selfish. We were the ones to bleed precious play time over that relentless keyboard, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. Boy, did we milk that moment.

Three

What I don’t remember is how early I connected the scent of musk on a Fall day with security, comfort and love. It may have been mold. But every time I caught a fleeting whiff of damp, fermenting leaves and dirt, I was transported to my grandparent’s ramshackle house on the banks of a Red River tributary.

This home, expanding as ten robust children burst its seams, sat atop rich black soil that Grampa coaxed into hearty wheat crops, plump sugar beets and, to mom’s chagrin, plenty of potatoes. She hated potatoes.

It may have been geography that produced this imposing scent. Or it may have been natural sanitizer poured into three holes of the outhouse, to control the stink. I do remember smelling this very scent as I crept a long boardwalk in the middle of a moonless night, trembling at every hoot of hidden owl.

By ten, I had to walk it alone, despite a wildly active imagination. My little sister used the indoor bucket, while my brother and I bundled in boots and parkas, ventured into the elements.

However the fragrance originated, I remain nostalgic when I catch a whiff: musk or mold. I see my stoic, beloved Grandma, standing beside Grampa, wearing the pale, cotton dress Mom sewed the week before. Waving with regret, as our yellow Ford station wagon spat agates along the dirt road towards town, five hours south.