When most memories have faded the senses of smell and taste linger. Here are four classics, for me, that can be imitated, but never duplicated. They are part of the earliest recollection I have of the holidays in the mountains of Southwest Virginia when Christmas was spent in the winters of the Popping Pines. Those are the nights that are so cold that the water in the pines where we lived would freeze and explode, sounding like a running gun battle among the long-dead native Americans or the still-warring Yankees and Southern defenders whose spirits were a lively part of our imaginations.
We knew that Christmas was a part of our Dad's thinking when the cedar tree was pushed and shoved into our little country home. Dad was a pretty smart guy - you could have asked him that anytime, but he had a very poor sense of proportion. Maybe the issue was that Christmas was a BIG deal to him. ANYHOW the tree was always cedar and the tree filled house with its size and aroma. Since the tree was cut from the 32 acres of our farm, it had to have a crooked base. Our farm had an average slant of about 34 degrees from vertical. The mule, cows, chickens, pigs and geese pretty much developed two legs shorter than the others as they made their way around the hills and the Christmas trees were lopsided from growing into the hillside. No matter. After whacking and trimming the tree there was a magical suspension of lights and colored glass and tinsel. In a few days, Santa's elves helped deliver things from his district warehouse (Sears) in Greensboro, NC, a long way from the mountains of Virginia. He could not have spotted our little home so tucked into the mountains on a place called Possum Hollow Road anyhow. I would think it odd years later that when other kids left Santa cookies and milk, that we would leave him a baloney sandwich, fruit cake and eggnog. I know he got tired of cookies and I will never forget the fresh cedar.
Another distinct smell of the season was the frontal assault on the senses at Aunt Mae's tiny home. She was the surviving matriarch and grandest cook of all. She had known hardship most of her days, but had remained the sweetest of all of God's children. Her kitchen was her domain and in it everyone else was a servant to her commands or gestures. The result was the smell of cakes, pies and nogs. Some had been baptized with a bit of brandy and bourbon and some were pristine. Coconut was hammered, milked and grated into about everything, especially the coconut cake and eggnog. Output from our cows was Aunt Mae's for about 2 weeks prior to the Christmas gathering. So were the eggs. We had picked the apples and hung the slices to dry in late summer - now they were pies. Some of last year's ham and sausage that Dad had cured was part of the meal. There were lots of Mason jars to wash and box after the meal, but what a feast. I'm sure I have cholesterol from Aunt Mae's cooking still hanging on my artery walls, but I treasure that more than a Rembrandt. Yes, the smell of a family feast at Aunt Mae's lingers on and on.
Christmas breakfast at Nannie's and Papaw's was another delight for the senses and a young child's tummy. The overwhelming smell was biscuits and butter. There was ham and bacon and sometimes pork chops to balance out the eggs and gravy. Coffee was around and cider too. My grandmother's biscuits had a reputation because they tasted like heaven. She told me that her mother, a first-generation German immigrant, had taught her how to make them and that there was only one way to do it right. She was that way about many things - but who could fault the Queen Of Biscuits? Add butter, add bacon, add one to your mouth and imagine a loving God feeding this to the Israelites in the wilderness. Surely God gave my great-grandmother and my Nanny this recipe from His manna cookbook.
The final smell was the smell of God's gift of twin daughters under their first Christmas tree. They had been born in Kentucky in August and now we were in Raleigh. They had not learned the fine art of sleeping all night and Santa had more help than he wanted with the scene at our home. The nice thing was that there was no rush on this day and the girls were clean and rested and there was some little Peace on Earth - or at least in our little home. They were dressed in silly little peppermint stick PJ's and had little elf caps and looked like decorations themselves. They, for me, were the gift and the miracle that year. Since then, they have brought their own offspring and begun their own traditions and I hope begun to dazzle their little ones with lights and smells and JOY.
One of the most curious things about all the treats for the senses - there are so few surviving images from any of the first three places. I can only guess that people were too busy eating to mess with pictures.
I can describe to you every trail I used to walk and take you to every spring. I can show you where I caught my fish and downed my one buck, for which I daily repent.
Fifty years later I have the strongest notion of the rooms, the faces and the feelings of the holidays. The triggers come when I brush a cedar, smell a warm biscuit (no matter the quality, it is a try and in my book you do get A's for effort) and see my grandchildren or some other people smiling and giggling about a plan or a dream that might be met during the holidays.
I pray that they and YOU get your nose and heart filled with all the Joy and Love there is to get and give. Tim © www.timjohnsonphoto.com
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