Red Buick and the Smell of Green

I've been thinking about those growing up moments that glue the fragments of life together. When I think about childhood or young adulthood there are two paths that I take. One is general 'those were good time or bad times.' The picture is grey and full of ideas that I tell myself. Then there is the other memory path of colors, sounds, tastes and smells. Sensory memories capture moments that can't be contained by judgments or ideas. Today I'm thinking about the color red and the smell of green.

Sundays were my dad's day to cook. Unlike my mother, he loved to cook. When he was drafted to serve in the Korean War, his family advised him to say he could cook. It was a family strategy that produced several quite competent cooks in dad's family. And they all survived the wars. So, dad learned to cook in Korea and continued cooking when he came home. While weeknight meals were meat loaf, canned green beans and stony silence, Sunday meals were a celebration. Sunday mornings were for sleeping in then rising to prepare for the feast. In exchange for washing the dishes, my brother and I were allowed to witness my father's magic. Thin yellow cake batter and raspberry jam were miraculously transformed into beautiful jelly rolls. Potatoes were peeled at a lightening fast pace and a roast studded with garlic and carefully set in the middle of the oven. Preparations completed, we would cram into the front seat of dad's red Buick for a trip to the bakery for fresh bread.

Dad would steer the boat of a Buick up South Main Street, wait until we passed Holy Family Church where 11:00 Mass would just be letting out and turn up the radio's Sunday morning Polka show. He'd bang on the dashboard to the Beer Barrel Polka and we'd wait for the DJ to announce the noon hour with the swooshing sound of opening a beer can and an announcement that the BARS ARE NOW OPEN. The we'd all sing along to She's Too Fat for Me and cruise up and down the hills of Fairmount to the bakery where piles of fresh baked bread awaited us. And THAT is where I smelled that smell. I was old enough to know better but somewhere in or around that bakery was the smell green. Not the smell OF something green, just the smell green. It was not the smell of yeast which I am now thoroughly familiar with. Not the smell of cut grass though it had a similar sharp freshness about it. It was just the smell green. Somewhere in my synapses, there was still a smell that was also a color though in the tarred parking lot, linoleum floored, white walled bakery in a concrete neighborhood, there wasn't a lot of green to be seen.

Whatever that smell was, I loved it. It was Sunday and Beer Barrel Polka, a ride in dad's car and jelly rolls. Although my parents were not known for their patience, somehow the 'smell of green' was something they could let slide with a smile and a mild correction. Maybe that's why it sticks with me. It delighted them a little. I delighted them a little in those moments. And I remember it. And Sundays will always be more special for it.