My dad had a specific cologne he’d wear when we were young and he and mom were going somewhere. Maybe Stetton, I’ll have to ask.
The smell of a musty attached garage always reminds me of my grandparents house.
My Mom would make Butter-Nut Poundcake from scratch; the aroma of the flavoring–Oh, man! DO NOT TASTE!
Love’s Baby Soft perfume (Do they even make that anymore?): First perfume I ever bought for my first real girlfriend, and about the only one I could ever stand the smell of.
Do you mean Stetson?
They still make Love’s baby soft. I saw it around Christmas in a gift set. I almost bought it.
We always went to a summer camp when I was little. It smelled like pine needles, and wood smoke. There was always an afternoon, where I was swimming in the lake with my favorite cousin, and my mom and dad and grandma were sitting on the beach watching us. It felt like the summer afternoon would go on forever, and there were no troubles in the world, and everything was OK because my dad was watching us have fun.
Thirty years later, we went to a different camp. And I was sitting on the beach, watching my son play with his favorite cousin. And suddenly I recognized that I knew exactly what my son was feeling, and exactly how my dad felt. And I smelled pine needles, and wood smoke.
Regards,
Shodan
Creosote is also very memory evoking to me. Until I was 5 years old we lived in a company sawmill town. The type where the whistle blew to call the men to work, blew for lunch, when lunch was over, and at the end of the day when you knew dad was coming home. Company store, houses, complete company owned town. They were moving away from the idea of staffing with rowdy, single men, who might show up for work on time, and going with the idea of hiring married men who would always be there. Particularly if you gave/rented a home for the wife and family.
The smell of creosote brings me back there every time. Not a stick of this place remains.
I love this thread.
Me too. I was born in 1957 and Mom wore Arpege perfume when going out for the evening with Dad. After Mom died, I bought a bottle to remind me of her, but it didn’t smell the same…
My mother wore Shalimar, only when my parents were going out for the evening. One whiff and I am back to being a little kid waiting for the babysitter to arrive.
My grandfather smelled of old tobacco and small engine oil – he smoked unfiltered Camels, and loved to tinker with roto-tillers (there was one specific make he used to work on almost exclusively for his neighbors). The resulting aroma was kind of musty and sharp at the same time. I don’t run across it these days, but I can almost smell it when I think about him. He was such a lovely man, who died way too soon from emphysema.
saw dust
It reminds me of the back porch on the house we lived in when I was really little. My Dad replaced that porch.
That is the only one I can think of right now; but some smellmories are so strong I have to grab hold of something so I am not snapped back.*
*possibly to be discovered in a catatonic state never to return to now