Independence Anniversary Eve

Dateline:  3 July 2010
Location:  Old Mountains, North region, Land of Granola and Granite

After English country dancing, before square dancing.

After Cologne Imperiale, before Shalimar.

Jicky.

American contra dancing.

***

After crafters guilds, before the UAW

I find myself in a nearly impossibly perfect location, the Grange hall in Montpelier, Vermont.  Part church, part one-room school house, part Elks hall...100% American.  I’ve stepped out of Pa Ingalls difficult decision whether or not to join the Grange, an activist fellowship/fellowship activist tradition of a collective of American farmers from the 19th century.  

Joining me in the top set of the first line is a wonderful person I just met as the dear friend of mutual friends.  On the other side of the hall is my son the erstwhile driver, joining nothing but strangers in the third line.  The crowd ranges from teenage to octagenarian, amazingly well distributed down the age range and across genders.  Dress styles range from granola-punk to casual evening out, but there is general vibe of skirt-iness:  easy peasant-style elastic top skirts, in muted or vibrant colors, simple or many panels.  On girls, mostly, but there are guys in skirts, which is feeling like a cognitively dissonant throw-back to a certain era of my life.  (Plus the kilted punk dude with devil horn hair in Edinburgh.)  There are lines, but the lines are in squares of four, so depending how you look down the hall, you feel either like you’ve stepped into a Soul Train dance line, folk style, or as if an elaborate Busby Berkley set-up of pinwheels and such is about to begin.

Turns out both are right.

I have never done this before.  Never even HEARD of contra dancing.  Square dancing, yes; dutifully trained in a complete unit in elementary school.  Virginia Reel, yes; Scarlett O’Hara scandalized the matrons by joining in a reel while still in her mourning clothes.  But this?  When the gentleman first suggested a group go to a “contra dance,” my son’s eyes flew open wide.  “Nicaraguan rebels?”  (I tried to ignore the sparks of interest visible in those eyes.)  

No, no rebels.  Just a bunch of welcoming folks who were very patient and friendly with newbie strangers from a different part of the country.  

And belly dancer sourpuss.  But she was definitely the exception to the rule.

So there I am, the female half of the Number One couple at the Top of the Set.  By “top of the set,” one indicates ones relative position to the band.  Oh, yes; I forgot to mention...live music.  Real musicians, like gather to play Nova Scotia shanties or American folk or that music that was in the spine of the narrative in Widdershins, which for a meandering reason I picked up as a summer at the cabin read a few summers ago.  These particular musicians were quite fine.  And the caller next to them, a beautiful woman with salty salt & pepper curly long hair, was extremely fine.  

Anyway, Number One at the Top of the Set.  We’re closer to the band...and if we were playing cards, we would be dealing the round.  One would think that a prerequisite of being a member of a Number One couple would be that one would know what the heck one was doing, but apparently not so.  Luckily things work out.  The caller starts each dance by leading us through the pattern, and the pattern does not include any move that our “host” didn’t explain in the car on the ride over.  As we walk through the dance, he helps me pick up how to spin.  My male “neighbor” (from Couple Number Two in our square) gives me a tip on how to hold my right hand as he moves me through a “courtesy turn.”  

The dance begins in earnest.

This spin business?  Did you ever join hands with a friend on the playground and lean back and circle around, using your momentum and weight to create a multi-person dervish that got crazier and crazier until you fell down laughing and collapsed with dizziness?  Well...imagine two grown-ups facing each other, assuming the traditional waltz position, leaning back into the arm on your shoulder blade, and doing a little two-step around and around and around...generally for 10 or 12 beats.  Just enough to make you a little tipsy until you get used to it.  And even then, it’s...like being on the playground.  :)

Turns out the couples/squares are going to move themselves down the Soul Train line, so that by the end of the particular set you will have danced your way through every Number One male and made contact with every single neighbor...not to mention your regular revisiting with your own Number One partner.  There is foot stomping involved, sort of--I kept on thinking Scottish clogging meets Western two-step, but that’s not quite right.

I fell in without falling out, as it were.  And smiled the whole darn time.

After dependence, before striking out on one’s own

I sat out every other dance.  Because a) you are moving the whole time (take that, interval trainers), b) I don’t glow, I sweat, and that meeting hall was not air conditioned, and c) it was fun to watch and learn and enjoy the patterns and the mood.  I sat there for the second dance, with the same goofy grin on my face, just taking in the scene, and then I realized there was a tall blond looking sort of new-ish but quite comfortable in the third line.  He was handsome, and he was doing fine.  

I immediately looked away, because I didn’t want to send the vibe of mother eyes upon him.  Got caught up in looking at the mass of dancers closer to me.  Forgot about him, remembered.  Looked back.  And realized my powerful mother vibe wasn’t really all that anymore.  Because he wasn’t going to receive it anyway.  

At a pause between dances a couple of songs later, I was getting ready to join the crowd when I realized the tall blond was walking toward me.  He gave me the look and the words that said he was just seeing how I was doing.  And then he walked away to rejoin the action.

Old friends, new friends

I rejoined our “host” for our last dance of the evening, having joined other partners for the intervening rounds.  There was a new move incorporated in this one, and by the time I was at the end of the line, I pretty much had it down.  We loaded into the car, crunched gravel as we pulled out of the lot...but not so loudly that my son’s last partner couldn’t call out “Come back again!  Soon!!”

The new friend flies planes, is a math whiz, bypassed high school before going to college.  Loves contra dancing.

The new friend is my son’s new friend.  And mine.

Before me, the new friend.  After me, my child.

More traveling yet to do.

Land Yacht

Do you remember referring to certain large make American automobiles as "land yachts"?  The LTD's, the ginormous Caddies, the long heavy steel carriages that floated down the highways like hippo-weight marshmallow clouds?

As a kid, riding in the back of a Pinto station wagon, I'd check out those land cruisers.  I'd feel sorry for their hog-ness.  And I'd wonder if maybe people who rode in those didn't get car sick.

Who knew that one day they'd turn a truck into a passenger vehicle, and the whole game would change?


***
It's road trip time.

For reasons not quite vacation, certainly not business, and everything having to do with family and moving toward independence, I am pointed east.  With a driver's permit equipped teenager, a slew of Google maps, and a loose plan that has two firm pin-points on the agenda.

Yesterday's miles took us onto tollroad and Turnpike.  And the layers of memories started to lift up like calendar pages in the "time passes" montage from old movies.  Roadside sign symbols.  Place names.  Sounds of voices.  Proximity of people.  An odd, triangle on its side shaped back window that you could only pop out a little bit.

And then, not at the Knute Rockne traveler's station, but at Falling Timbers, a move out of my experience to my mother's.  For in that outdated "oasis," a paean to things 1950's, in the worn at the heels women's restroom, was what at first glance seemed to be a standard issue feature.  A diaper changing room.  With a groovy light up sign mounted above the door directing you to it, mind you, but still; we've all seen a changing station before.

Except that as I paused to look, feeling an odd mix of curiosity at the janitor's closet ambience and the requisite wondering if the men's room had one and a touch of nostalgia at the fact that the one of the subject/objects of diaper changes in my parenting life was taking his turn driving.  And as I paused, my mind tracked back to one of those impressions.  Why janitor's closet?  Oh, right, there's a sink in there.  These days, you get a fold down piece of plastic with a picture of a koala and an empty wipe dispenser inside and hope to goodness the hinge will be strong enough to support your baby.  Okay, walk by.

Come again?  No, that wasn't it.  Look back.  Step fully inside this time.  Ah, it's that the sink is oversize.  Large enough to...to wash a diaper out.  Holy freakin' cow.  And that drain at the bottom?  It's not a metal-flower covered 2" opening.  No, it's a genuine, rock 'em sock 'em toilet exit type egress.  So now I am frozen for a moment, trying to take in a) one giant sink, at just below waist level, b) the fact that it is plumbed like a toilet, sort of, and c) omg, this is the kind of thing that would have made life easier for my mother.  Because

...you don't know how awful family road trips are until you try to pack food for a day and travel with a baby and if you're the passenger up front you have the diaper pail between your legs.  

And with that, my mother persuaded my green self to use disposable diapers while on the road, and convinced me my harried life as a young parent would never have the same flavor hers did.

Janitor toilet sink with a faucet and hot and cold handles.

So, flooded with more memories than perhaps even the janitor toilet sink could dispose of, I headed back to my vehicle.  Climbed into the passenger seat.  And held my breath as my son backed out of the parking space and accelerated onto the turnpike.

**
For those of you keeping track of the perfume score, I hit the road wearing--but of course--Normadie.  I put it on, thinking it was pleasant enough, kind of cologne-y, but was too distracted by the hubbub of getting ready to hit the road to think much about it.  Perfumista mistake, of course, since I was trying it for the first time.  So much for thoughtful notes.  So much for even just taking it in.

Two hours later, I regretted not paying a little attention, because I thought it was gone.

Three hours later, I smelled something that smelled good.  On my wrist.  Well, I'll be.  WHOOPS there's a situation to talk new driver through....and again, distracted.

Five hours later, it's still there.  And now I've been on the road long enough I'm started to rethink the idea of applying scent for a car trip.  Which I knew, I KNEW, would potentially be a something to take into account.

At eight hours, and nearly to our stopping point, it was nearly gone.  Irony, irony, irony.  I am going to pause by Lake Erie, my benchmark for least retention time, and Normandie is a disappearing/reappearing tenacious quiet lovely thing.  I think.  I'll pay more attention next time.  For sure, it was more a Huron or Michigan on my wrist, even as I looked out onto Lake Erie.

*
About to head out for Leg Two.  With Amouage Abyadh attar on my wrists.  Which I will report on next.

Bluegrass

Am travelling, and rolled my way at highway speeds through Kentucky horse country yesterday.  Even with the window rolled up, at one point a familiar, yet different, smell wafted in the cabin of the car.

Grass.

Of course.  The Bluegrass.  Not just the name of vegetation, the name of a place.  The smell was fabulously intense.  My first impression was newly mown grass, and then I realized how rich it was.  Full of chlorophyll and a little bit damp, the kind of saturated cut grass smell that tends to come during a certain period in spring, at least where I live.  The best part was the overtone of it drying in the sun.  Of course.  Hay.

I have always thought of the smell of grass and hay as two different beasts.  I know, intellectually, their relationship.  But for some reason, driving through this beautiful region, I felt the transition between as well as the stasis of their two different selves.  But it was because of this layering, the this and then the that linear processing in my brain.

Emotionally, as I rode through, I was happy in that heart heavy with beauty kind of way.  Emotionally/intellectually, as I started to compose this, I was struck with a little bit of awe at the trite but no less profound way experiences both overlap and help define differences in this vast country, in small human interactions, in the big picture.

As I finished writing about the effect of the progression of the smells, I was struck by something else:  I wondered if this perfume thing is starting to frame the way I think.  I was worried, actually.  I don't know why; former experience of course lends a frame to new.  I guess it was the thought of it being so reflexive. But no, now that I've voiced it, I'm pretty sure that was a genuine description of a pure experience.  I was simply struck by the parallel as I wrote.  But still...when you come at something from a different direction and then have that a-ha moment when you thought you are actually somewhere you've been before...weird.

Regardless of how pure or pre-shaped my regards, I know that the smell of the grass was intense.  It permeated my nose and for a while pre-empted any fancy thinking and filled me with just the sensation of the smell, and with a state of being.  I am not from this place, I do not have a sense of past-life connection to it, I will not necessarily be compelled to return regularly.

But I have BEEN here, and it was wonderful, and I am grateful for knowing it.

Thank you, nose.  Thank you, eyes.

Thank you, grass.


image from Rubber Punch

Water, water, not everywhere, and so many drops to drink

Greater Phoenix.  The Valley of the Sun.  Where saguaros grow as roadside trees, where centers of harmonic convergence are never far.

Where from the dust rose farms.  And golf courses.

Where the water comes from snow.

A person who thinks about water in the slightest has to think about it here.  When previous inhabitants give up trying live here after 1,000 years of working their own canal system to make the land arable, the place clearly has challenges.

When you stand high up on a mountain and look at the sprawl of subdivision after subdivision, most of them consisting of building construction that rather looks like the big boxes of any other U.S. urban sprawl, except with stucco siding and tiled roofs, one has to wonder just how this group of settlers is impacting their environment, and from whom they are taking the resources to make it happen.

My son is fond of pointing out that the energy impact of cooling a home in a hot climate is less than that of heating one in a cold climate.  I grant that.  But so many people.  So much sprawl.  So much traffic, with little to no public transportation.  So many homes volume but no ventilation, big panes of plate glass exposed to the elements with little to do but gain solar heat.  Not much evidence of shade as part of the structure, of thinking about making the patterns of the sun either work to your advantage, or at least do a dance with those patterns to minimize negative impact.

Unique to Phoenix?  Heck no.  But this is no temperate climate.  It has the hottest climate of any metropolitan area in the United States.

A while back, there was chatter about the impact of all the grass in Phoenix.  All these northern folk had come in and planted their new lawns with what they knew:  grass.  Which needed a LOT of water in the Valley of the Sun.  Phoenix has changed its water usage policies since then.  There is a 100 year plan, and folks apparently take care of their landscape with different habits (and regulations) than a generation ago.

But one still thinks about water.

☀ ☀ ☀

Perfume.  Available locally is a perfume called "Cactus Flower."  Based on the scent of the night blooming cereus--which is protected, and therefore cannot be harvested for purposes of enfleurage etc.--it is described in its promotional literature as a "soft floral scent."  I got some harsh raspy chemicals in there.  Since I haven't had the experience of smelling the one night out of the year event that is the blooming of the Queen of the Night, I can't really speak to how closely the overall effect of the perfume approximates that of the flower.

I declined getting some, even as a souvenir.

☀ ☀

For further information about Desert Queen perfume, see the website here.

Traveling and Scent

They pop up every now and then; follow the perfume blogs long enough, and you'll notice that most eventually get around to the question of perfume and traveling.  As in--how do you pick your scents for a trip?  Does it depend on where you are going?  What type of trip?  What phase of your perfume exploration you are in?  Do you pack any at all?

If you are flying, and are trying to do the footloose and fancy-free no checked baggage style of travel, you also have to contend with security regulations.  That habit of decanting/preparing samples comes in handy here.  If you wish to tote.

Personally, I don't usually sweat it.  Since I'm one of those types who is frequently taking either a conscious or "oops, I did it again" sabbatical from perfume, the idea of finding myself in a new location without fragrance doesn't phase me.  Of course, I have to admit that I generally have a vial of something or other in my purse or toiletries bag, and that the opportunistic stowaway is there because it's either the object of current fascination/investigation, so there's not necessarily an all out blackout in the cards.

And, I'll have to admit that if I am kind of a fan of picking up a scent to associate with a vacation/place.  So, if time and opportunity permit, I'll check out the local offerings and see if I can find something to use while on the road and then bring home.  (That's how Elizabeth W ended up in my inventory. Another story.)

But if time, or budget, or circumstance don't offer the chance to shop for perfume, I'm not devastated.  In fact, I might not be paying attention.  It's all good.

I'm on the road right now.  And I'm traveling on the half-plan.  Which means I didn't think through *exactly* what I wanted to have along based on where I knew I'd be, the weather, the company, etc.  I did decide to bring something, and looked through my samples and small decants for what I thought would be good.  Three vials, I said.  Period.  Have to be prepared to surrender/lose them; have to be happy to have them along if I for some reason feel a craving to wear.

And I can't think about this too much, because I've got to pack in a short amount of time, wrangle pet care, finish up jobs at home, etc. etc. etc.

So, only moderately under the gun, I end up with three scents for the mountainous desert southwest.  All end up being a floral, which is kind of weird, because I'm not particularly a floral person.  They do hit the following logic in my head:  one is one I've been meaning to try, one is one I recall finding the love for last spring, and one is one that sometimes struck as refreshing w/o simply being a cologne.

So far, I've only bothered with two, and both in the same day.  #3 is a fail.  Fresh Violet Moss.  Discontinued, incidentally.  Too strong on the violet--is it the dry weather?  Can't be heat, per se; it's not so terribly hot.

#2 is a winner.  On a whim I applied it not long before bed, and thought, THIS would have worked.  Hermenessence Rose Ikebana.  If I'm going out, I'll wear it.

We'll see if I get to #1.  Could be a strong association if I do try it here, since I've only sampled it once or twice.  Parfumerie Generale Psychotrope.  Not today, for sure.  Too much time outside.

The truth is, I'm only thinking about this to this degree because I've got this window to write before the day gets started.  As interesting as this perfume thing can be, it doesn't trump the attention I devote to new vistas and time with people I don't often get to see.  This is not the kind of time where I would use perfume for comfort, or armor, or setting a scene.

Nice to take a moment and reflect, though.  And wave to anyone stopping by here.

Liz Zorn Grand Canyon

Yesterday was another travel day, hit the road home so would have time to attend to things back at the homestead before the workweek began again.

Had stashed a few samples in my bag, and decided I'd be okay with Liz Zorn Grand Canyon for the ride, even though I hadn't tried it before.  Mind you, this was a rather momentous decision, as scent AND car travel are potential headache triggers for me.  Guess I was both trusting and impetuous.  Who knows; maybe I was swayed by the idea of travel implied by the name.

Things worked out fine.  Grand Canyon wears close enough to the skin that I didn't impinge upon any other rider's experience, and wears pleasantly enough that it enhanced mine.  

Opens with a syrupy-resiny amber that made me have a natural perfume epiphany:  so many of the natural perfumer offerings I have tried hearken back to my days spent blending essential oils.  Potentially, a bad thing, because I realized that each time I smell a perfume that opens with that association, I cringe a little bit.  History with essential oil blending teaches me to be ready for a long ride on whatever note(s) hit me out of the bottle, because that note would be first, middle, and last on the skin.  Natural = WYSIWYG.  If you are already in doubt at the start, you are probably going to end up scrubbing.

Not so of Grand Canyon.  Thank goodness.  

Because, after all, what I search for now is a perfume experience, which should involve theatrical acts or musical movements, or at least a sense of shifting into position before settling in for the night.  Grand Canyon offers that, and it is where it finally settles that brings me pleasure in this one.  I can see why March over at Perfume Posse mentioned GC in a post about scents she wears to bed:  the sweet opening can focus you with a direct message about happy places, and then the more intriguing smoky spicy elements floating about the vaguely citrusy amber base when it settles down can help waft you away to sleepy land. 

I liked Grand Canyon just fine once it settled in.  I am still wrestling with its behavior, however; I guess it offers the best of both worlds when it comes to true natural perfumes vs. traditional perfumes.  I'll have to get over my own stereotypes when it comes to the opening, and embrace the fact that this makes a fine daytime scent.*  Anything that travels well for me & my surrounding company AND can still strike me as both settling and interesting...albeit quietly so...is a good thing to have in the arsenal.

*or, obviously, night time for some  :)

Memory, Place, and Perfume

It's Thanksgiving in the United States.  Time to travel home, or have folks travel to you.  

No, this is not going to be about the scent of pumpkin pie.

This year is a travel home one for me.  I spent a long time on the road yesterday--twice as long as it should have been, but musings on congestion, cars, and American habits I will save for another day.  By the time I started rolling through what qualifies as "home turf," Andrew Bird was singing about a tic on the left side of the head through the car speakers, and I found myself reflecting on the geography of home and the question of whether or not you can go home again started weaving through thoughts of perfume journeys.

Let's see if I can lead you through this.  It's about how we become who we are, and whether or not our descent into and through the realm of perfume follows a similar pattern.

I have long been fascinated by, and believed, the idea that geography helps shape character.  I also think that somehow, we can find pieces of our very essence in places we might not expect or have never been before.  In other words, home geography might help define us, but it doesn't have to BE part of us.  Hence, some people ride into the turf that was their childhood, and have a visceral sense of connection, place, nostalgia, longing, relief, desire.  For others, crossing through the turf of their childhood may evoke a "I'm so glad I got the hell out of Dodge" kind of response.  Some may not experience much of anything...no connection, no repulsion, just "meh." When I drive back to the terroir that incubated me, I have the first kind of response.   

Geographical nurturing  influences some of that response.  But our inner nature can be powerful, also, and I feel some of that comes into play for me.  For someone like my mother, nature trumps nurture; she finds her emotional connection in the desert southwest, even though she was born in the northern plains and raised in the northern woods.  When it comes to our geographic emotional connections, both elements are at play.

When I was making and teaching film, I discussed the idea of geography as part of a character, landscape as both mood and content cue, and indeed, geography as character itself.  Many writers and directors feel the land both defines us, and determines what choices we have for literal and figurative movement.  And land may indeed call to us.

Interesting, but where does the perfume come in to this?

Not as scent memory.   Rather, as metaphor for our olfactory journey.  The journey that is our exploration of perfume, our path through notes, combinations, and preferences.  Consider for a moment the blog writer or poster who discusses their path through perfume:  "When I started, I was into x kind of scents, but now find I am into strong x scents."  Add in a common aversion:  "that is a Grandma perfume," or "I kind of like it, but my mother wore it, so no way for me."  What prompts this movement along a scent path?  Is it entirely an evolving olfactory sophistication?  Or might some portion of the process be defined as a reaction...a movement away from the familiar, the territory of the known, of homeland, and toward exploring new lands?  Perhaps even a form of rebellion against the past, a strong statement of independence...a barbaric yawp of youth?

Will we go home again?  Can we?  Should we?  Must we?

I wonder if eventually, the curve of scent appreciation might lead some folks back home again.  In the same way that many adults who spent the first portion of their independent years forging their identities as far from their stomping grounds as possible, then find themselves back--whether for the emotional connection, or because it is the only place they can imagine their own children spending a youth, or because after exploring all the other places in the world, they find it is the one that suits them best after all.  

Some folks will never come back; the mountains were never right, and a life on or near the sea is what suits them best.

But might not some, who so strongly say "I'll never do that/go back," find that doing that/going back is exactly what they DO do?

I am spending the day in the geography of my youth.  I will not wear the scents of my grandmothers; I am still busy forging and proclaiming my own perfume identity.  But I am feeling quite connected to place.  Perhaps someday I will feel equally connected to a perfume.

I wonder... For those of us with more than a few bottles lying around, does desire to collect scent reflect a desire to chart a journey, record a path?  Is it more than simply wanting to own, but perhaps a need to keep sensory contact with memory?  Might the path of their olfactory exploration, and their choices along the way, somehow mirror their relation to their life path?  

Such were my thoughts in the dark on the two-lane.  Now, the sun is up, and it's time for me to join my family.  Elements of today will be familiar; others will be new.  One day, in a string of others before and more to come.  I plan on it all adding up to a pleasant whole.  

Have a fantastic day.   I'm off to make pumpkin pie.