Memories triggered by smells

Smell is a powerful thing. Recently I was shopping for a new mattress for my mother. The first store I stopped at had a decent location and friendly personnel. I was greeted promptly and the guy seemed to know his merchandise. Unfortunately, the entire store reeked heavily of mildew. The mustiness of the place made me resolve to shop elsewhere.
The second store was clean, well-organized and had no discernable odor. Again, the guy behind the counter was friendly and knowledgeable. It was a plus that his prices were a tad bit lower than the first store.
My third stop was at a very cluttered place close to my mother’s house. It had a hint of that smell of age that you find in a very old building, but just a trace. I found several living room suites I wouldn’t mind having but I wasn’t shopping for those. I located the mattresses tucked into the far reaches of the labyrinth. The prices were competitive with the other two businesses and again, the personnel were knowledgeable and friendly.
After discussing it with Mom, we spent our money at the store with the freshest fragrance. Even though the prices were similar and all the merchandise was new, the deciding factor was the odor (or lack thereof) of the business.
Some retail establishments bank on our association of certain smells with either cleanliness, as in the one mattress store, or desire, as in the aroma of fresh baked bread that is sometimes piped into grocery stores to entice us to buy baked goods.
Some places have no need for artificial aromas. I love the smell of greenhouses. The openness, the fresh breezes, all those plants converting carbon dioxide to oxygen combine to produce a feeling of contentment. The rainbow colors of the flowers conspire with the fragrances and compel me to spend all my disposable income on the plants that jump into my cart.
That damp, clean smell of greenhouses does something else. It transports me back in time to when I was a little girl. In the spring, my grandmother and I would go to the greenhouse located at the bend in the road in the tiny town north of our farm.
There, my bare feet would get cold on the damp, packed earth between the rows of flats. At that time I had no interest in the plants. I just knew that here, in this place overflowing with new life, my grandmother was happy.
The anger, frustration and loneliness that was so much a part of her evaporated as she visited with the greenhouse owners and chose what she would put in her garden and flower beds that year. We loaded the car with vegetable plants, pansies and goodwill.
Once we got back home my mother and I would plant the pansies in the tractor tire that Mom had painted silver. It was always pansies. These days we plant the flowers for her as she can no longer kneel on the ground to do it herself. We nestle them in beds, pots and hanging baskets as she doesn’t have a silver tractor tire in her yard.
Me, I don’t plant pansies very often. The plants tend to wither and die in the summer heat. I want something that lasts longer. I pick flora that will bloom all summer. Anything that I’ve never seen before is more appealing than the petunias and marigolds that seem to be so popular.
The smell of damp earth is a fragrance I associate with happiness. Unfortunately for some store owners, the musty odor of mildew just makes me want to flee.[[In-content Ad]]