I have been unpacking and repacking two large cartons of breakables in my mother’s new studio apartment. Treasures from my childhood have been making an appearance; they are the same but different; you know what I mean. The memories of vases, bowls, brick-a-brack are intact yet marred by time, the slight distortions making me wonder if my memories have aged or if the china cups and saucers in the cabinet that used to be on the wall behind glass have aged. The only thing I know for sure is that I have aged.

In the late 1970’s on my first trip to England, Ireland and Wales, I purchased pieces of Portmeirion pottery. I was taken by the botanical garden designs by the wife, Susan, of Sir Bertram Clough William-Ellis. He was the architect and designer of the town of Portmeirion in Wales who created an Italianate fantasy of buildings from bits, pieces and chunks of buildings in Italy and cobbled them into a wonderful, whimsical place in the name of art and conservation. It was so fascinating that the British television series of the late 1960’s, The Prisoner, starring Patrick McGoohan was filmed there. Remember “Number Six?” The series was run in the 1970’s in America and was an impetus for my visit to Portmeirion in 1977.

Now that you have all that background which you probably didn’t need anyway, but it makes for a more multilayered story, I will go back to unpacking boxes. I told the packers to include the two canisters I had given to my mother as a gift when I returned from that trip so many years before. I still have a bunch of them myself as well as some cache pots, each one different displaying an illustration of flowers, fruits and vegetables inspired by botany illustration books. (I finally treated myself to a set of dishes with the wonderful flowering designs.)

Of course, when you see something with a lid you open it. The first canister was empty. The second, however threw me backwards. It was as empty as the first one and they likely sat that way in my mother’s kitchen for years. But, there was something in the second jar. An odor. A powerful, overwhelming odor that I couldn’t quite make out at first, it was that overwhelming. Horrible, like that rotten can of cat food that exploded recently. How could a pottery jar hold what seemed to be a smell from ancient times?

It took several washes and an airing to remove the stink from the jar. The wood lid, however, still reeked and no matter how many times I washed it, let it air outside, smeared soap on it, rinsed it again, the odor persisted.

It is the smell of tobacco. It is the smell of my father’s cigars. The cigars he smoked all during my childhood. The cigars he was supposed to stay away from, that my mother found in the car trunk after he died. (She never drove).

I can’t tell you how many times when I have been under stress, I have insisted that I smelled my father’s cigars. There is nothing around me to induce that recognition. You might call it an olefactory hallucination, others might call it a visitation. It makes me smile. My father used to tell me not to worry despite his being the biggest worrier I ever knew. Opening the jar reminded me of that.

The timing was interesting, the stress, the memories, the reminders. It was some visitation. Or maybe my father was just sneaky enough to hide his cigars in the Portmeirion canister that kept them fresh long after his death in 1991. The odor of his presence, maintained for more than twenty years.

This series is linked: see “continued here.” Also, below the line there will be links for the previous post and the next.

The series starts here

continued here