Memory Triggers

Sight, sound, smell, and taste are great memory triggers. I see a vintage muscle car with old-school wheels and other things of the day, and I reminisce about the many fun times of my youth. I hear the lope of an old-school cam will trigger the same memories. But to me, the strongest of memory triggers are smell and taste.

One day, as I pulled into the parking garage at work, I smelled the sweet aroma of a cigar. One of the guards was walking through the garage while enjoying a cigar. My grandfather, whom we called Papaw Overton, always smoked a cigar. As I drove to my parking spot in the garage at work, I had the windows down when the aroma of the guard’s cigar triggered a memory of riding in the back of an early 1960s Chevy Station Wagon while going down a red dirt road in Arkansas. The back window of the wagon was open, and a small cloud of red dust filled the air along with the aroma of Papaw’s cigar. What seemed normal back then turned out to be precious memories of being young with grandparents. I can close my eyes and relive those fun times.

Taste is the other strong memory trigger for me. As I walk around the building at work, there are dishes of candy everywhere for the taking at people’s cubes and the Office Administrator’s desks. Recently, I grabbed a couple of pieces of taffy. I love taffy; probably too much. I unwrapped one of the taffies, which had a cinnamon taste. The instant I tasted that cinnamon, I was brought back to my childhood days spent with my Papaw Thoma. He always had a pack of cinnamon-flavored Dentine chewing gum. Every time he pulled a piece of gum out of the pack, he would offer a stick to whoever he was with. I was not a big gum chewer, but I always accepted the stick of gum when he offered it. This morning, when I tasted the cinnamon taffy, it took me back to the summer I spent with my Papaw Thoma. He was the church custodian for the Baptist Church in Crossette, Arkansas. On Monday mornings, I would tag along with Papaw to help him clean up after the previous day. He would run the floor-wax machine while I grabbed the trash cans and emptied them into the dumpster outside near the rear parking lot. I learned responsibility since he expected all the trash from the small cans to be taken out. That was a big job for a 5-year-old, but I took it seriously. My brothers took after the Overton – Irish side of the family, and I took after the Thoma – German side of our family. So, I had a connection with my Papaw Thoma. He and I were a lot alike.

Funny how our senses trigger such fond memories.