Aromatherapy

Last weekend it rained.  Again.  How this still qualifies as a drought I can't understand, squishy as the ground is nearly everywhere.  According to NOAA, however, we have improved from Extreme to merely Severe status. Whatever.  We were stuck inside.

The only real blessing I find in days like these during hunting season is the opportunity to get slightly caught up on what unavoidably gets neglected from September to the first of March.  Cleaning, fixing, moving, touching up, throwing out and the general repair and maintenance of the nuptials can eat up a weekend in no time.  After I let the dogs back in I sat down for a minute, taking a break from the domestic gulag to catch up on some reading, and was immediately overcome with the smell.  Unmistakable, overpowering, thick enough that it ought to be visible.  Wet bird dog.

I can understand why some people, especially non-dog people, would find it less than appealing.  It's not exactly perfume or potpourri and I doubt Glade will be incorporating it in their lineup this year but it's not altogether repulsive either.  Dew-soaked mornings, dips in a puddle or a creek, rides home when the inside of the truck smelled of nothing other than damp dog fur.  This never turned me off.  Sometimes it lingered for a few days and I'd get to enjoy it on the way to work.  I can never recall, not even once, rolling down the windows or otherwise trying to cover it up.

I have a closet full of scents that fit the same bill. The bottle of Hoppes No 9 in my cleaning box is as unique as anything in there.  The fact that it's a solvent can't be denied and it will open your eyes if you get too close.  From working distance, though, it almost has a sweet smell to it.  Apparently enough people felt the same way that Hoppes now offers air fresheners.

When I pull out the No 9 and the barrels for scrubbing I get a faint whiff of the leftover powder.  It smells exactly like the gunpowder hanging in the air after the first trigger pull on opening day, sharp, announcing with its presence the beginning of a new season.  By January or February you don't notice it as much, but after a long summer it floods a nose.  Powerful stuff.

The tincloth of my Filson vest has an aroma all its own.  As do my gloves which, like any really good gear, have a story.  When I was maybe thirteen or fourteen I saw an ad in a magazine for authentic Marlboro Man gear.  Shearling coat, cowboy hat, boots, vest, the whole works.  The deal was you sent in empty packs of Marlboros as legal tender. Everything in the ad was many cartons' worth, the shearling coat priced at a good decade of any chain-smoker's pleasure.  But there was a pair of leather gloves for the occasional, only-when-I'm-drinking smoker, maybe twenty or thirty empty packs.  And I wanted them.

As luck would have it my dad worked with a dedicated Marlboro patron who gladly contributed to the cause and in about 6-8 weeks I had my gloves.  Normally the stuff you get in these giveaways is worth less than the empties you trade for it and falls apart in a few months, junque in the classic sense.  These, however, may go down as the deal of all time. Thirty plus years later they're still at it, not a tear, not a crack, not a loose stitch anywhere. It's gonna be a sad day when that first chink appears.  All well-worn leather smells distinctive, far different than brand new, and each individual piece more distinctive still.  I could pick these out of a lineup blindfolded.

As potent as these scents are, even more so are the memories tied to them.  Instant, uncontrollable recall kicks in as they tickle the olfactory wires.  Hundreds all at once and strangely each one is good.

Rain, rain go away.  But don't take these smells with you.