Our front door couldn’t be shut quick enough to keep out the biting blast of     air-so-winter it temporarily killed the other aromas. The oven was an atomizer of pumpkin or apple pie, turkey or ham, for my mother.  Dad was Old Spice, cigars & beer. A real pine tree that shed needles to be found weeks later while sweeping, mixed with the smoky cinder smell of burning embers in the fireplace.

The fireplace that held stockings each year also bore special gifts atop the mantel. For Sis and I, Mantel Gifts were always a doll, in some form—a jewelry box with a twirling ballerina inside, porcelain-white angel figurines with birthstones set in.  They were not elaborate, but they were a special type of gift to ooh & ahh over, then put away to admire again later.  There were always two; one blonde, one brunette, (to represent each of us), so they never needed to be wrapped. Sometimes I wonder what lengths my mother might have gone to in acquiring the proper hair colors. One year, it was a bubble bath decanter in the form of a doll.

My sisters’ was shaped into a yellow body/dress, while mine wore pink. The “cap” on the bottle was similar to a Barbie head—all smushy between your fingers with pouty lips, flirty painted eyes and synthetic hair fashioned with straight-across bangs. I immediately had to unscrew her head to smell the gooey soap inside!

I can still smell it now.  Clean, crisp, blue like the ocean.  Aquamarine. It’s the sort of fragrance you fall in love with, that you want to consume, or have it consume YOU. Maybe it was also a combination of the fresh-from-the-factory-plastic body/bottle and rubbery Barbie-esque head.  Whatever it was, that smell has survived in my mind for over thirty years, but took up residence on one of the higher shelves.

High above the scenes of drunken family fights and facades, thoughtless, prodigal or careless lovers, and noticeably absent loved ones taken by death.   Like leftover congealing pies, soot & ashes, dead trees to be hauled away, these flashbacks deserve to be stored in the dark, dingy basement corner of my brain.

Even though it’s just a snapshot of a memory, I still reach up on tip-toes to take that Mantel Gift down, dust if off, unscrew the cap, and breathe it in.  Every year.  At least once, but to keep it special, not too frequently.  A reminder of how much my parents loved us and at one time, tried really hard to bring smiles to our little girl faces. This is my Christmas, before I knew about pain, heartache, and how cruel life could be.