Memories are time machines to the past

Wood shavings covered my lap as the knife in my hand whittled away at what I hope will eventually become a Santa Claus figurine or maybe an Easter bunny. The end result is less important than the process. As I fingered the curls of wood I was transported back in time to when I was very little. I was across the alley from our house. My grandfather and I were in the garage. Long, golden curls drifted down from the workbench as he worked some project or another. His plane whispered and slid across face of the lumber. I was safe and happy.

Odd that I don't remember what he made from the wood; odd that nobody has ever said, "This was made by your grandfather." All I remember is the wonderful feeling of being with my beloved grandfather and the smell and feel of the pieces of trees.

The garage is long gone, buried by Interstate 70. My grandfather left this world when I was in fourth grade; stopping only to say goodbye. His planes, hand drills and other woodworking equipment turned to ash when my brother accidentally burned the barn down. All that is left is the memory and a smile.

Memories are funny things. Something can be forgotten for years and years before a smell, sound or even a scrap of wood will bring it all back just like it was yesterday.

Shoes remind me of my mother-in-law. I regard shoes as a necessary evil and as long as they cover my feet I consider comfort to be far more important than appearance. She did not agree. We lived close together when I first married her son. She often took me on shoe shopping expeditions. My husband thinks it odd that I associate brightly-colored shoes with his mother. My daughter understands completely.

Every time I hear an angel story I think of my father-in-law. He firmly believed in angels and told tales of how angels would rescue him from impossible situations such as when they changed a tire for him when the car was snuggled tightly against the curb or lead him to safety in a snowstorm. Now he is an angel himself. He is probably shoe shopping with his wife.

My ex-husband once told me he thought I was near when he smelled my perfume. It wasn't me and I don't wear that fragrance anymore.

I have heard that we remember scents long after we have forgotten everything else. Some sources indicate that we store information about aromas in the same file cabinet in our brains that stores emotional memories. Perhaps that is why certain smells can instantly transport us back in time.

Unfortunately, not all memories are good. The sound of a dentist's drill and the smell of the place makes me quiver in fear. Just walking into a dentist's office causes concern. I associate that profession with pain and meanness. Thankfully, there are some who recognize that fear is justified and do what they can to alleviate that feeling. It doesn't completely override the bad memories but does make the experience bearable.

Most memories are good ones. We, or at least I, tend to block out the bad stuff unless forced to confront it.

Lilacs and other spring flowers remind me of my grandmother. She always had lots of flowers around her house. I have spent most of my adult life trying to replicate the plants in her yard. It isn't about the plants as much as it is about the memories.

What is it that takes you back in time? Is it the smell of brownies coming out of the oven that makes you smile? Does the perfume of freshly-cut hay bring to mind strong, young boys slinging bales onto a wagon? Does freshly-fallen snow make you want to grab a sled and head for the nearest hill? Does a song transport you back to when you were dating your sweetie?

Or is it the smoothness of wood shavings that transports you back to long ago? Whatever it is, don't let those memories die. Save them for future generations so that they may know what life was like when you were small.[[In-content Ad]]