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Sense and Scent-sibility
When I think about 2020, my memories are very sensory. Twenty-twenty is a bit like music. Whenever I hear The Fifth Dimension sing Bill, I am transported to of our apartment in Toronto in the early ’70s. But more than music, 2020 is the smell of bread baking. I don’t think I know any adult, family or friend, who didn’t try to bake a loaf of sourdough bread when yeast and flour became precious commodities. I jumped on the sourdough bandwagon, promising myself I’d never let the mother-lode die and I’d pass it along to my children, and they’d pass it along to their children. I’m still baking bread once or twice each week, but yeasted dough is the way I do the rolls. There is no pandemic sourdough starter to pass down to the next generation. One afternoon, probably while waiting for the dough to rise, I sat on our side porch and marvelled at the variety of birdsongs in our neighbourhood. Once or twice I’d seen cardinals, but rarely ever heard their call until 2020. Until the sounds from the road and the ambient sounds of local businesses almost disappeared, the songs were hidden. Bread and birds. My mom would have said they were made for each other, one way or another. The smell of bread baking and birdsong is so 2020.
Twenty-twenty makes me think about the smell of fresh air. I didn’t realize I’d forgotten the earthy fragrance until it came back when the volume of traffic around the County plummeted. For the first time in many years, the air was not filled with exhaust from the usual steady-stream of passing vehicles. When it rained, last spring, I was reminded of the smell of the earth, the air and the rain when I was a little kid. In my mind I’m outside, dancing around in the yard trying to catch a raindrop on my tongue and being intoxicated by the air. It wasn’t until last year I learned there is a name for that smell. “Petrichor”. It’s the term coined by Australian scientists in 1964 to describe the unique, earthy smell associated with rain. It is caused by the water from the rain, along with certain compounds like ozone, geosmin, and plant oils. Petrichor, brought to us by 2020.
Twenty-twenty brings to mind the hugs and handshakes I didn’t think I needed and now, “Oh, how I miss them.” On Easter Weekend, 2020, my brother and sister-in-law dropped by. We shout-chatted for a few minutes, and I have to admit, I shed a couple of tears because I was so happy to see them but so upset about not being able to hug them. Those hugs and handshakes were denied and, some days, I wanted to give and to receive them more than anything. Yep, I wanted a hug more than I wanted a slice of warm, fresh-from-the-oven bread, slathered in butter. Sorta, kinda. Aside from those people who were in my bubble/household/circle/immediate family, I haven’t hugged, high-fived or done a handshake in over a year. I know now how important physical contact is for mental, emotional and physical health. I am “skin-starved” and “touch deprived”, according to the those experts on the touchy-feelies. Last year made me acutely aware of the need to be close, physically, with other people. Apparently, a friendly touch can lower your heart rate and your blood pressure. If 2021 is going to be a repeat of 2020, we’re going to be a bunch of hyper-tense, skin-starved and tachycardia suffering people. As many times as I’ve been told how resilient people (especially children) are, I beg to differ. We need to be in touch, verbally and physically, with other people.
When will all of this be over? Will I be ready to lose the sound of a cardinal to the sound of an idling Purolator van? Will I forsake the smell of the lawn after a spring rain for the heady aroma of the idling Purolator van? Will I be ready to hug my friends when I see them, without thinking about cooties? Most importantly, will I ever bake another loaf of sourdough that is good enough to eat and not something I cube up and try to foist upon those hapless birdies? I’m in sensory deprivation overload.
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