Smell is the first and strongest memory, and the last to leave us. Incoming smells are processed by the olfactory bulb, which sends them through to the amygdala and hippocampus, centers of emotion and memory. All scents go through these two centers, whose marquee should read: ALL THE FEELINGS.
Scent is not everything, but it does get all balls rolling.
TWO I’m lying on the lawn in front of our house, which is (as I will later discover) just like the houses to the right and left, and also across the street and behind us. We all have narrow backyards and neat squares of lawn on either side of the cement walk. I’ve planted myself in the grass, arms and legs outstretched. No shoes. My face is sideways on the grass, and I am overcome with green. I can smell green, and when I pull out clumps of grass and wave them over my face, I smell the loamy, mineral smell of backyard dirt. I breathe deeply as little clumps fall on my face and hair. There’s a vast world out there and I am in it!
FOUR Chickenshit is a thing, not just one of my father’s expressions. My aunt and uncle have a chicken farm in New Jersey. With a lot of chickens. They are enormous, Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds, with dirty feathers, beady eyes, and personalities to match.
My aunt Fritzie, otherwise the kindest of women, demands that I help out. She feels that I have been spoiled by suburban living. What she really feels, I think, as I grow up, is that it was a very good idea to leave Russia and not be massacred in her home but that some lesser things — Yiddish, chicken management, competent children — have been forever lost. She lets me choose between helping her wring the chickens’ necks and gathering eggs. I gather eggs. Inside the chicken coop, it’s shadowy. The air palpates with shit and eggshell, corn and feathers. I can hardly breathe, but even after I succeed in gathering six eggs and putting them in my padded flour sack, I don’t want to leave. The air is a living thing.
SIX My father smokes a pipe all the time. As an extra treat — as it seems to me, like ice cream instead of a single cookie — he smokes a Montecristo No. 4 cigar in the evening. He’s enveloped in a cloud of herby, cedary smoke. He blows smoke rings, and he gives me the cigar bands to wear. (When I’m three months pregnant one winter, I won’t let him smoke in my house, because the smell doesn’t just make me nauseous — like everything — it actually makes me vomit. My father puts on his hat and coat, unfolds a lawn chair, takes the newspaper and a cereal bowl to use as an ashtray, and settles himself in the garage under the one hanging lightbulb. I see now that my self-centered and implacable father didn’t complain, even a little. The garage smells of Montecristos for years. After his death, I find myself in the garage, sitting in a lawn chair.)