Scentimental

By Pam Hadder

So what does Salvador Dali have to do with my daughter? Well, it’s complicated – a story made of sensory impressions, passed from father to child; from grandfather to granddaughter. It’s illusory and yet obvious, and it all started with a spritz of cologne.

My daughter’s birthday just passed.  I can still remember the moment she was born – how small and still she was.  They say newborns can’t see that well, but her dark, almond shaped eyes bored into my weary hazel ones with the intensity of a very wise old soul.  She didn't cry; she came swiftly and peacefully out of my body and was gently sponged, swaddled and placed against my breast – a textbook, natural birth. Now she’s a twenty-something and Momma is just a strange aging creature that she has little time for – I think I am her worst nightmare; everything she doesn't want to be.  She constantly talks about how cool her friends’ Moms are, and I feel my motherhood slowly melting away like a sugar cube in hot tea.

Needless to say, she’s hard to shop for – I have walked countless miles and scoured shops for the perfect little something for all those birthdays, come and gone; something precious and pretty that she would wear and remember my love. Failure after failure, but I just keep on trying and blowing it –frankly, if I hadn't witnessed her coming out of my body, I’d swear there’d been a baby swap!  But she’s all mine – people tell me how alike we are, but I don’t see it.  I do know that I was not close to my own Mom – I love her, but I always fell short of her standard; I didn't measure up.  To this day, my Mom hugs me dutifully, and I have described her limp embrace as like having someone drape a light cardigan over your shoulders. 

Back to the birthday – I bought my daughter a handmade leather and crystal rocker-style wrap bracelet, and I found a card that played Frank Sinatra (she’s in love with him). And I put some cash in a tiny gift bag.  I knew she’d put on the bracelet once and never wear it again – after all it came from the leper known as MOM, but I wanted her to have something to open. I was right – she did try it on and thanked me, but I found the bracelet in its velvet pouch sitting in the living room the next day: ditched, another gifting mishap.  But the cash, well she spent it on a fragrance she wanted – AND she let me know the money I gave didn't quite cover the cost (ouch).  

This is where it gets interesting.  She wanted me to smell the cologne – “It’s a men's cologne,” she told me. She had wanted her boyfriend to buy it; wear it, but he didn't like it. I held the spray nozzle under my nose – hard too get a read, too faint.  I asked if it would be okay to spray a little. I over-sprayed, and saturated the cuff of my pullover; dang!  Finally, the scent: “It’s very nice, it reminds me of something – another cologne.”  But I’ll be damned, I could not put a visual to the strong connection I was feeling. Princess pranced off with her loot, but my mind was in overdrive.  Repeatedly I lowered my head, sniffed and thought, and I sniffed again.  Then it clicked – my Dad always liked this after-shave tonic called Tabac.  It wasn't expensive – it came in a white glass bottle and it smelled spicy - kind of like vanilla tobacco.   My daughter and my Dad had this special bond, he could be crotchety, but he was putty in her presence – she had found the scent that was uniquely her grandpa!  So I ventured into the tigress’ lair and I let her know about Tabac – she smiled and we talked a bit (I could be a stranger on a bus!); she knew she was Grandpa’s favourite, so despite the awkwardness, I felt I should tell her. At least I had some small pleasure in knowing, my Dad left an impression.  

The story doesn't end here – I kept sniffing my cuff, knowing I was on the right track, but that the scent trail led further than I had ventured; something was niggling away at me.  Then it clicked – I could see it: an amber-brown cologne, in a crystal bottle shaped like Aphrodite’s kiss, with a frosted glass patrician nose: Dali. I’d worn that cologne when I was my daughter’s age: spicy, sultry with a hit of tobacco.  My moment of personal realization: in my own attempt to define my young adult self, I had actually snuffled closer into my Dad’s shirt collar. No, still not done, but we are close! The final connection is a tight, symbolic loop-de-loop. The fragrance my daughter loves is called Pi, the fragrance is amber-brown and the Pi symbol appears in gold on the architecturally-inspired bottle.  Pi is the letter P, Pamela starts with P, Pamela is a Greek name, and I sign my art work as “Pamela”, but using the Greek alphabet/symbols. 

Scent and sentimentality – how complex the bonds that draw us together, even as we try to pull apart.