Scent of a Memory

It started at the grocery store, but it wasn't until I had a knife in my hand that the flashback became physical time travel.

My family here in New Mexico has made an effort to gather not just at the holidays, but once in the summer as well. Location moves around a bit, and the host/ess plots the entrée and everyone brings an accompanying dish. It's not quite "pot luck" as the options are divvied up, first dibs first taken. Vegetables, soup, potatoes, sweets, beverages, etc. As we had a 3+ hour drive to my aunt's home well north of here, I claimed the fruit option, knowing I could prepare it in advance and it would travel well.

I stopped at the grocery with my list, hoping my master plan for colors, textures, sweet and tart would be possible. No apples or bananas; nothing that would turn color exposed to air. I needed berries, melons, and grapes. Luck was with me, and blackberries, raspberries, green, red and black grapes made their way into my basket. A couple of cans of cubed pineapple were tucked into a corner. 

Then I surveyed the melons. As my grandfather taught me, I rapped each with my knuckle, seeking that specific sound, deep and hollow, which reflects the ripeness beneath the rind. I heard his smile, that one, yep, and that one. 

My grandfather was born in 1898; he was in his mid 60's when I was born. He was a towering figure, with the jet-black hair and broad cheekbones of his Indian mother (his hair was still black when he passed at 97) and ice-blue eyes. He was from a time that viewed children as labor, and all us grandkids spent summers working the fields - moving irrigation pipe, picking chile - 40# a sack (we were grateful it wasn't cotton, as the bolls cut like razors), picking and shucking pecans ("PEE-kahns"). We'd jump in the ditch to cool off, drink sweet tea to slake our thirst, and get back to work. I learned to change oil in a tractor and a version of Spanish used by migrant workers. We'd never heard of sunscreen, defying the heat in borrowed hats, our shorts and bare feet.

The smell of roasting green chile - in big barrels over open fire - transports me into my grandmother's kitchen. It's about a thousand degrees, the chiles still warm from the roasters, having to be peeled quickly. The wet, slippery flesh rinsed and dropped into the endless rows of waiting Mason jars. The pressure cookers on the stove steaming and clacking in harmony. Apron-clade women, hands covered in lard to keep the chile's fire out of our skin. Sweaty brows and laughter. 

I was in the very fortunate position, as eldest, to go on ride-alongs with my grandfather. I can't say I was his favorite, but I worshiped him. We'd walk in a field, and pick out a few cantaloupes or honeydews to take home for dessert. Taptaptap, taptaptap, hear it? That one. Taptaptap...

As I stood in my kitchen, knife in hand, I went taptaptap before cutting, just to make sure. The rind resisted the blade for an instant, then parted with a dry sound, deep and hollow and echoing across the decades. As knife met cutting board, a faint glistening of juice rolled down and I saw the seeds well separated from the walls, clinging together. The color of the fruit went all the way to the rind. As the sweet smell rose up, I heard him say yep, that one, and smiled.
  

Mean Girls

I was not popular in high school. I was tiny, smart-mouthed, and battling my own demons. There were probably plenty of people that were nasty, but I was oblivious. I didn't care, I was much too busy taking too many classes and listening to what is now referred to as "classic" rock. The people who were my friends then are, 35 years later, friends still. It was a time of computers the size of small buildings run by punch cards, and the coolest rotary phone around was the princess; it was easy to be clueless of what others were saying about one. 

No longer.

Now, thanks to the ubiquitous-ness of recording devices, internet connectivity, and sharing platforms, secrets and privacy have become fiercely guarded rarities. I have a colleague whose daughter has been subjected to cyber-bullying; no parent likes to feel powerless to protect a child, and the anonymity and relentless onslaught of over-connectedness is difficult to combat.

One mis-step and the veil of civility can be shattered forever. Reputations carefully cultivated over years are wiped away as easily as a spider's web. So we watch what we say, where, in front of whom; what we post, the background of photos, our choice of adjectives. Too Much Information (TMI) is rampant when poor judgement is exercised; we have lost our sense not just of propriety but of discretion.

It has always been easier to destroy than to create. Why take delight in something that takes so little effort? And trust me, someone will notice your snide comment and repeat it; gossiping is like breathing. As the great wit Alice Lee Roosevelt Longworth quipped, "If you can't say something good about someone, sit right here by me." Little gives more wicked delight than hearing about the foolishness of others.

A number of recent incidents have me scratching my head over what to do. The bottom line is that we, in borzoi, aren't very nice to each other. Oh sure, we behave well in public, sheathing our knives and presenting a sweet face to outsiders. And we, like all dog people, have a superlative gift for pulling together in a crisis - the shorter lived the better, lest the fissures surface. Woe unto anyone that says something against our breed of choice, our packing instincts are well honed. 

But all too often our favorite hobby is feasting on the flesh of each other. I used to say that borzoi people are opinionated and outspoken. That's true, but that's not all of it. We are mean to each other, and really should stop. It's important that we stop. And each of us must do our part, and support each other.

Over the weekend someone (accidentally, I'm sure) posted to a 1000+ person e-mail list a critique of how someone else describes her dogs and spends her money. I know this person slightly, having corresponded by e-mail some years ago. I can only imagine how hurtful it was for her to read, no matter how accurate (or not, I have no idea) the comments were. We all have a lot to learn. I don't care if you've been in the breed 5 minutes or 5 decades, we all have a lot to learn. Particularly about being nice - not just in public.

As C.S. Lewis said, "Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no no one is watching." The thing is, everybody is watching now.