Each time I lit the candle, a rich, earthy fragrance brought forward hazy memories, vague images which came briefly into view and then vanished amid so many forgotten days.
I’d light the candle and back they’d come.
Out of focus, but strong.
One day, with the faint but familiar fragrance still in the air, still teasing my middle-aged mind, I reached for the smoky-colored glass containing the candle and turned it over, hoping the label would reveal something – anything, that might re-animate these mislaid memories.
And there it was, my answer. Pipe Tobacco.
Almost immediately, a clear vision from those indistinct days came to me; a beautiful memory of Mr. Gould’s den, tucked in the corner of the Gould’s grey-green, two chimney, Colonial, which sat a short block from the edge of Lake Michigan.
You could find it by heading straight east down Scranton Avenue, the main street of Lake Bluff’s hardly-a-downtown-business-district.
The old house sat in a quiet spot amid tree-filled lots and winding ravines and looked as if it had been there almost as long as the venerable trees which towered over it.
Stepping into the Gould’s house was like stepping from the Way Back Machine with Mr. Peabody. Everything from its old plaster and uneven, wood floors, to its cozy nooks and small, sunlit rooms filled with old things, incited my imagination.
And the kitchen – old bricks and beams – will always smell of fresh-baked bread.
Betsy and I would cut thick slices off a golden brown loaf cooling on the tall counter and sink our teeth into the still warm, chewy insides that hinted of honey and butter and left our fingers powdered with flour, and my stomach hungry for more.
With our final crusts of bread stuffed into our mouths, we’d 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.
An old Victrola winding down a ragtime tune – tinny, scratchy and lazy to finish.
Another time still haunted the corners of this room.
Before the piles of fabric, patterns and sewing stuff cluttered the small, bright space at the corner of the Gould’s old Colonial near the lake, where we’d 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 left and my ride home appeared at the front door.
The rest of the upstairs was a mystery to me, being two-thirds occupied by teen brothers, whose rare appearances and even rarer visits to Betsy’s room usually lasted briefly and annoyed her thoroughly.
It simply scared the shit out of me.
On occasion, when Betsy sought out her dad during my visits, we’d wander back down the creaky, old stairs, through the dark front entry hall (which no one ever seemed to enter through) to the one and only place I ever recall encountering Betsy’s Dad.
With a timid rap on the solid, old door, we’d hear his gentle voice give permission to enter this space, his special place.
And it was here, as the door opened and I entered behind my best friend, that the smell of sweet and spicy, earthy and smoky, became an inexorable part of me.
As did Mr. Gould, ever at his desk. Smoking his pipe. Sweatered like the perfect professor.
Ever engaging his hands and his mind.
And ships in bottles.
Magnificent, masted vessels of extraordinary detail. Masterfully constructed. Delicately painted and meticulously engineered within ridiculously constrained glass confines.
When finished, each ship would join the miniature armada that floated on a sea of books on wooden shelves, near paneled walls and paned windows with mustard drapes and a glass-topped coffee table filled with shells and sticky sand from innumerable spilled milks.
Like the room above, the windows of Betsy’s Dad’s den overlooked Scranton Avenue.
Each night (Betsy would tell me), without fail, her dad would close those long, mustard-colored curtains and sit at his desk to busy his hands and block out the world.
Yet each and every time a car drove past, she found it most mysterious that her dad would draw the drapes back – just enough to watch the car pass – and then close them again and return to his task.
And his deliciously fragrant pipe.
And his secret snacks – Pepsi and Fritos – hidden beneath his desk.
And there he’d stay, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, making beautiful things for make-believe worlds.
I could have sat in there for hours exploring the books, the shelves, the bottles, and the mind of a quiet, creative man. All of which, as a child, were out of reach.
Yet now reach out to me.
Calling me back to the old, two-chimney, grey-green, Colonial on Scranton Avenue.
To Betsy’s Dad’s den.
To his ships and his pipe and the sweet aroma.
To fresh baked bread.
And lazy afternoons.
With best friends.