Stamp My Passport Back In Time...

Memory is a funny thing.  It’s so easy to be blind-sided by a file drawer springing open in the brain, prompted by seemingly tiny triggers.

Or maybe that’s just me.  OK.  It’s probably just me.  Just about anything will stimulate the memory cells.  I think, for normal people, certain deep-seated memories can be activated by the senses.  Perhaps the smell of fresh-baked bread brings a warm feeling associated with a favorite aunt or a song can remind you of a time or a place.  I definitely experience that in a mostly normal way but I think my cut off valve may be broken because my brain doesn’t stop at a pleasant thought.  No!  Once that faucet starts flowing, there’s no stopping it!

My olfactory memories sneak up on me and drag me down memory lane, but it’s never something as simple or obvious as fresh baked bread.  No.  For me, it’s the smoky mixture of oil and gas that most would find unpleasant.  For me, whether it’s a car in need of a tune up, a landscaper’s lawnmower or chainsaw, I’m immediately transported to the Friday nights of my childhood at the dirtbike races.  I don’t even remember watching the races, but being there (to support the family friend who owned the track, I think) was tradition and we had the run of the nearby lot to play tag and use the swingset and whatever it is that kids do in such places until I was ready to climb up into the stands and fall asleep. 

Of course, there are nicer aromas in my memories: my grandmother’s linens, my mother’s cookies, even my dad’s Brut aftershave but it’s the funky ones that hit me every time.  There’s a certain kind of terrible muddy smell that immediately takes me to my very first concert.  I was about seven and it was Elton John in his platform shoes, giant sunglasses and sparkling silver jacket heyday under the St. Louis Arch.  My big sister Sue and I went with her friend Liz, in Liz’s teeny tiny MG convertible and as we crossed the river into town, my 7 year old self felt pretty damn cool.

The arch, if you don’t know, sits along the Mississippi River and St. Louis in July is about as hot and humid as it gets.  We’d had a few days of rain, so the landing was extra muddy.  And, being a free concert in the seventies, the area was jammed with sweaty, pot-smoking, sweaty, Budweiser drinking, sweaty, incense-burning young folks (did I mention sweaty?) who’d been there for days - in mud up to their ankles, dancing and partying and having a great time.  For me, the mud was up to my calves and my head was much lower to the ground.  The stench was horrible but I didn’t care.  I was at a real concert, listening to a real famous person and learning from the crowd how to wave my fist in the air and sing along to “Saturday Night’s Alright”.  It was wonderful.

To this day, when I catch a whiff of Mississippi River mud, I hear Elton John in my head and remember that day.  Likewise, hearing “Saturday…Saturday…” evokes the scent from out of nowhere.  It doesn’t make sense but it totally makes scents.

Lately I’ve come to realize that when I’m tuned into the Oldies station on the car radio, there are no longer any “oldies” playing.  Instead, I’m hearing the bands of the 80s who filled the cars we cruised in down the beach.  See?  That can’t be Oldies, right!?  When Bad Company and Bon Jovi are coming out of my speakers, I’m suddenly no longer waiting in the carpool line for my kids.  I’m on Hwy. 98, somewhere under the Miracle Strip Tower, trying to decide whether to go to the beach or go to a party with a bunch of tourists.

It doesn’t take much to stamp my passport back in time and send me completely back to a place.  If all of the conditions are right, I’m completely transported.  On a perfectly sunny fall afternoon like today, there’s just no fighting it.  Why would I, really?  These are free vacations and I don’t need to check a bag. 

As I walked to retrieve the kids from school, the sky was clear and sunny and there was a beautifully gentle breeze in the air.  That alone was enough to make me take it in.  There was an unusual break in traffic that brought peaceful silence and enabled me to hear the soft clang of a rope hitting the flagpole in front of the school.  Whoosh!  I was gone!  I was no longer on a sidewalk in suburban Georgia.  Instead, I was on my beach in my favorite post-tourist/pre-snowbird season hearing lines flapping against sail masts on catamarans parked in the sand next to lifeguard stands.  The birds flying above were no longer hawks and thrashers.  Now they were seagulls and sandpipers.  For just that brief moment, it was real.  I was there with sand between my toes and salt air in my lungs until the bell rang, kids spilled from the brick building and I was back on the concrete, smelling school bus exhaust.  I was back, but my Time Travel Passport was stamped and my soul was recharged.

Maybe I’m not all that unusual after all.  Maybe we all have it in us to go back in time like that but we forget to just go with it.  Here and now, real life and responsibilities keep us tethered and grounded.  That’s normal.  We can’t live in the past and we shouldn’t try.  We all know that, I think.  But why can’t we VISIT sometimes? 

Try it.  When a memory calls and invites you to travel with it for a moment, go along for the ride.  Sometimes those visits backwards can deliver just what you need to keep moving forward but you’ll never know if you don’t stamp the passport and get on board for the trip.