A simple smell.

[missed mallards]

A memory is a powerful thing. It allows one to relieve one’s past, the fun times that brought smiles, the hard times that brought tears. A memory can be sparked by a number of things, from an old picture, a phrase, and even that of a smell. Harvest time in the Mississippi delta is a time I look forward too each year. Smelling the dust from a combine, taking in the cool falls air, allows me for a few short seconds a year to relive my past, chasing my grandfather and dad through the fields of golden rice and standing soybeans. Smells are a dime a dozen, and every once in a while an old smell will drift through the air, that will make me remember times hidden in my mind.

Tonight, I arrived home to relax from the day’s job. Turning on the television and taking my place in my recliner, I decided a little drink was in order. It wasn’t long before I was making my way toward the kitchen, when my attention was brought toward the two 870’s leaning on the wall. Showing the years abuse from this past season, I put my drink on hold and elected to grab the shotguns from there resting place and spend the night cleaning the battered guns. Placing each on the table, I was soon deeply involved in the task of getting the grit, dirt, and rust off of the well used shotguns.

Screws where unscrewed, parts where disassembled, and inspections where being made. It didn’t take long before I was slowly polishing my chamber when a smell of a past time arose through my nostrils. A time where that smell was powerful, and a time, I couldn’t help but remember. Oil covered hands, and a stiff wind at my back, my mind drifted to the time many years ago, where I received a gift, knowledge, and something in life I cherish.

It was the year I was 12 or maybe 13, my memory escapes me, yet a time in my early adolescents. That year, was the first time I remember my dad having a vacation, and one he could take during hunting season. It was fitting, that he take his weeks vacation doing the two things he loved, spending time with his boys, and hunting. The plan was to leave shortly after Christmas and spend several days in hopes of filling the cooler full of deer, squirrel, and other small game. A time where we could hunt, eat good, and just plan enjoy ourselves.

It so happened, that our trip would put us in the small town of kosisko during the new year, and plans of visiting newly met acquaintances where soon part of our experience. Arriving at the news year eve party, my dad opened a cold beer, my brother found a ‘new’ friend, and I listened to the tall tells from my elders. Talk of past times, life’s experiences, and large lies where soon being past around the table. The older gents would carry on hours of ‘talk’ as I sat with wide eyes hanging on to each word. Listing intently, laughing at the jokes, and getting drinks for the older men, I was soon having quite the time. The time however seemed to race, before anyone new it, hours had passed and we needed to head home for a few hours rest.

Getting up and shaking hands, the owner of the house and my father slowly disappeared around the corner, only to come back and motion for me. Wondering the cause, and quite hesitant, I slowly made my way over to the awaiting men. Smiling from ear to ear, I was lead to the mans gun cabinet which he slowly opened revealing a collection to bewilder a young man. Rifles, shotguns, and pistols where stacked, and sitting proudly in the center was a Ruger 22 revolver. Grabbing the gun, the man slowly turned my way and asked if I liked it. Knowing nothing of pistols, and never owning one I made the comment it was nice, and with that the man said “It’s yours.”

The next day I arrived early for him to show me how to clean the gun. A table was set up with rods, patches, oils, and other useful tools to allow me to clean my pistol in the manor it should be cleaned. Instructions of how to, and why where explained and a few short hours later, my newly acquired pistol glistened in the light. The barrel had a mirror finish, the cylinder clean enough to eat on, and the stainless steel barrel reflected the light much like a freshly minted coin. The man had given me a pistol, taken the time to show me how to clean it, fire it, and had one stipulation. One day down the road, I was to do the same. To give the gun to a kid that deserves it, that would respect it, and that would show it the care that it needed.

I fire that pistol from time to time and clean it often, although I should more. Cleaning my 870’s tonight, the smell of oil, the same oil I used at this mans house, brought back a memory. A pleasant memory of a childhood event, of something bigger at the time than I ever thought, and something I will hopefully pass on. I guess everyone experiences things that spark a memory, but the smell of gun oil, dirty hands, and a will to make that old gun once again spark, brought back one of mine. A simple smell, yes, a memory is a very powerful thing.

[donia]

diesel exhaust from a tractor, smell of harvest when I fall off THE hill outside of G'wood going to visit my parents during the fall, and the smell of a cropduster's airport do it for me.....every time.

[crackhead]

two stroke outboard exhaust takes me back to early morning trips down the boat trail to the duck holes in the woods.

Dammm how many more day's to duck season.....

[nomsduckhunter]

Great post....
For me it happened last Jan. My nephew got a new ball glove for his birthday and when he handed it to me, don't ask me why, but I just wanted to smell the leather. It took me back a long time ago when I would always do the same thing. I couldn't shake the feeling so I wrote a song about it.

Smell of a Glove
The smell of a glove and the crack of the bat
Seventh inning stretch and a box of crackerjacks
From old to young in the blink of an eye
We’re ready to play and we don't asked why

The things that take me back to the days of my youth
Barefoot in the grass and a sassafras root
Who woulda thought the memories we stir
By the smells and the sounds of this everyday world

Tape on the bat and my hat pulled down low
Memories rush over me and I’m Shoeless Joe
Socks all dirty and a face streaked with black
Running like the wind to a base that’s a sack

The smell of a glove and the crack of the bat
Seventh inning stretch and a box of crackerjacks
From old to young in the blink of an eye
We’re ready to play and we never asked why

Honeysuckle juice and stepping on bee’s
Running for base screaming oly oly oxen free
Rover red rover send Johnny right over
Blue jeans with cuffs and necklace out of clover

The bottom of the ninth and it’s about to end
The memories are fading and we’re feeling old again
We’re coming down to earth and feeling the strife
But the smell of the glove will renew our life

The smell of a glove and the crack of the bat
Seventh inning stretch and a box of crackerjacks
From old to young in the blink of an eye
We’re ready to play and we don’t asked why

The smell of a glove and the crack of the bat
Seventh inning stretch and a box of crackerjacks
From old to young in the blink of an eye
We’re ready to play and we don’t asked why

[feedcall]

September De-foliant(sp?) in the air. Always brings back memories of great dove hunts.

[Warren]

goodun...enugh said

[The Captain]

Missed Mallards,
I really enjoyed the post,it took me back to a good place. There's just something about that
gun oil smell that reminds me of my Dad cleaning his guns when I was a little kid.
Thank you.