Each time I light the candle gifted me, a rich, earthy fragrance brings forward hazy memories.
Vague images which come briefly into view and then vanish amid so many forgotten days.
I light the candle again, and back they come.
Out of focus, but strong.
With the faint but familiar fragrance still in the air, still teasing my will-menopause-ever-end addled mind, I reach turn over the candle, hoping the label will reveal something – anything – that might re-animate these mislaid memories.
And there is my answer.
Pipe Tobacco.
Mr. Gould’s den suddenly comes into focus.
Tucked in the corner of the Gould’s grey-green, two chimney, Colonial, which sits a short block from the edge of Lake Michigan.
You can find it by heading straight east down Scranton Avenue, the main street of Lake Bluff’s hardly-a-downtown-business-district.
The old house sits in a quiet spot amid tree-filled lots and winding ravines and looks as if it had been there almost as long as the trees which tower over it.
Stepping into the Gould’s house is like stepping from Mr. Peabody’s Way Back Machine.
Everything – from its old plaster and uneven, wood floors, to its cozy nooks and small, sunlit rooms filled with old things – incites my imagination.
And oh, the kitchen – old bricks and beams – always smelling of fresh-baked bread.
At least in my head.
Betsy cuts thick slices off a golden brown loaf cooling on the tall counter and we sink our teeth into the still warm, chewy insides that hint of honey and butter and leave our fingers powdered with flour.
And my stomach hungry for more.
With the final crusts stuffed into our mouths, we climb the steep, narrow, crooked flight of stairs to Betsy’s room, straight ahead.
Two rooms, really. One being her bedroom, the other, a small, summer sleeping porch with northwest walls of old, paned windows; where generations of restless sleepers sought lake breezes during the dependably hot and humid Midwest summer nights.
Cots and cotton nightgowns.
Late summer sun and the strident thrum of crickets.
Another time still haunts the corners of this room.
Ghosts hidden beneath the piles of fabric, patterns, and sewing stuff cluttering the small, bright space at the corner of the Gould’s old, grey-green, two-chimney Colonial near the lake.
We spread out across Betsy’s high bed and talk dreamily about our four favorite men: John, Paul, George and Ringo. Spinning their albums until daylight leaves and my ride home appears at the front door.
The rest of the upstairs is a mystery to me, being two-thirds occupied by teen brothers, whose rare appearances and even rarer visits to Betsy’s room usually last briefly and annoy her thoroughly.
They simply scare the shit out of me.
On occasion, when Betsy seeks out her dad during my visits, we wander back down the creaky, old stairs, through the dark front entry hall (which no one ever seems to enter through) to the one and only place I ever recall seeing Betsy’s Dad.
His den.
With a timid rap on the solid, old door, we hear his gentle voice give permission to enter this space.
His special place.
His sanctuary.
And it is here, as the door opens and I enter behind my best friend, that the smell of sweet and spicy, earthy and smoky, becomes a part of me.
As does the sight of Mr. Gould behind his desk.
Smoking his pipe.
Sweatered like the perfect professor.
Ever engaging his hands and his mind.
Creating.
Drawing.
Building dreams.
And ships in bottles.
Magnificent, masted vessels of extraordinary detail. Masterfully and meticulously constructed and painted within ridiculously constrained confines.
When finished, each ship joins the miniature armada that floats on a sea of books on wooden shelves, near paneled walls, and paned windows with mustard drapes; above a glass-topped coffee table filled with shells and sticky sand from spilled milks.
Each night (Betsy tells me), without fail, her dad closes those long, mustard-colored curtains overlooking Scranton Avenue and sits at his desk to busy his hands and block out the world.
Yet each and every time a car drives past, she finds it most mysterious that he draws the drapes back – just enough to watch the car pass – and then closes them again, and returns to his task.
And his deliciously fragrant pipe.
And his secret snacks – Pepsi and Fritos – hidden beneath his desk.
And there he stays, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, making beautiful things for make-believe worlds.
I would have liked to sit in there for hours exploring the books, the shelves, the bottles, and the mind of a quiet, creative man.
All of which are out of reach.
Yet now reach out.
Calling me back to the old, grey-green, two-chimney, Colonial on Scranton Avenue.
To Betsy’s dad’s den.
To his ships and his pipes.
And the sweet aroma.
To fresh baked bread.
And lazy afternoons.
With best friends.
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 