What's That Smell?

This story is a follow up to a piece I wrote last spring, regarding a certain 11 year old and how investigating the fossilized mess under his bed led me to solve the world’s missing sock crisis. A friend of mine (hi Cindy!) recently commented on the article, sharing a story about an odour in her daughter’s backpack that had her doing her own investigative work.  That got me thinking… and most of you know how dangerous that is! 

I grew up with a mother whom – I suspect – was part hound dog.  This was a woman  who would travel for days to find a missing item, never seemed to get tired if she was on the “scent” of something and had a nose that could smell spoilt milk (and untruths – but that’s another story) many days before it actually soured.  She could also sniff out bad meat, smouldering items or body odour from a distance of over forty yards. It is something I’ve never seen equalled, and it made my childhood a fair bit more difficult than it actually needed to be. 

You see, when your mom has a “super-schnozz”, you end up spending a lot of time searching for things.  My two sisters and I grew to hate hearing “What’s that smell?”  It was a phrase that was guaranteed to mean that all 3 of us would be spending at least an hour running around the house, lifting things and smelling under them – all the while being directed by our mother and her superhuman nose: “It’s a kind of funny smell – musty, fruity… a bit of perfume, maybe.  Shel – check in the hall closet by the door.” Of course, none of us could ever smell whatever it was she was “on about”, but she was uncannily observant about odours and freakishly accurate, which – in and of itself – was annoying. But she was also very, very determined… if Mom smelled it, it must be found.

Once an odour had been detected, half-hearted searching was never tolerated.  Heaven forbid that one of us kids didn’t look like we were taking “THE SMELL” seriously or concentrating on the task at hand.  Failure to search with the appropriate concern & vigour got you a “severe talking to” – something else this small, determined woman was VERY good at. I never met anyone who could wield the word like Mom and by the time she was finished with you, you were usually very ready to go back to the search. Now that I have kids of my own, I wonder if perhaps this was her intention?

So, back to the search you would go, being led from pillar to post, blanket to boot by Mom’s incredible sniffer.  Then at last, one of us would find the offending article and she could relax again.   And that – of course – was the key… if there was a smell which Mom couldn’t identify – she couldn’t relax.  And if Mom wasn’t relaxed, NOBODY got to relax. 

The good news is our house never burnt down, none of us died from smelly mould hiding in a secret location, that orange peel in the corner was always found and disposed of appropriately and we were all spared the embarrassment of someone outside the house smelling an offensive odour emanating from our young persons.  The bad news is we never got to choose our own perfume, eat certain kinds of food (the woman hated the smell of pizza, for heavens sake!) or bring certain items into the house.  Mom had one hundred percent control over “odour-emitters” in the family home.

Mom passed away fifteen years ago, and in true testament to the old saying that “You never appreciate what you’ve got until it is gone,” I have to say – there’ve been many occasions in the years since we lost her that I’ve found myself sniffing the air and thinking…”What’s that smell? I wonder where it’s coming from?”

And each time this happens, I have to smile as I think to myself: If Mom was here, she’d likely know.