Scent Memories

Listerine. The minty, slightly alcoholic scent of it pervaded their house, crept into corners and leapt out to surprise me at the strangest times. The wind could be blowing as if to batter the house down, forcing the pungent reek of half-rotted lake weed into my nose as I struggled up the stone path with more suitcases than was really advisable, but as soon as I opened the front door of that house by the lake all I smelled was Listerine.

My grandfather was the mouthwash aficionado in that house, and the smell of it followed him around like a shadow. He could be working in the garage, elbow-deep in the hood of one of his classic cars, and the young granddaughter that wandered up behind him would smell, amid the sharp bark of motor oil, the tang of antifreeze, the curiously enticing aroma of gasoline, the faintest hint of minty Listerine, even before he turned around and began to attempt to explain what he was doing with all the shiny wrenches. Later, a splotch of motor oil might still perfume his shirt or hands before my grandmother wiped its stain away, but mint mouthwash was once again paramount.

I would find him in his office, a dry, papery place with its own perfume of old books and dust, with a little bit of that crackly not-quite-a-smell-more-a-nose-feeling of heat in the air given its placement in a loft at the very top of the house. A hug there would waft those arid scents toward me from his hair and clothes, along with a whiff of his dandruff shampoo and, once again, the pervasive smell of Listerine. Its cool green aroma never lingered on our clothes and suitcases when my family took our leave from the lake house in Rochester, but when my grandparents came to visit us in Cleveland my grandfather brought his scent with him, perching it for a few days or a few weeks on the bathroom counter in the shape of a big green bottle of Listerine.