In my last journal, I rambled about a recent bout of antiquing, and mentioned the "aroma-de-old-person" so prevalent in antique shops. At the time, I didn't realise that many people may consider this a less than pleasant smell, so I thought I'd elaborate on what it means to me.

To me, the aroma of old person conjures up my Ouma (paternal grandmother), my last surviving grandparent. The scent is one of dusty upholstery, faded perfume, violet cachous and face powder. There's the odd hint of yesterday's roast dinner, and those pretty jewelled sweets that she always carried in her handbag. (From these sweets, I learned that perfume never tastes as good as it smells, but I liked them anyway - more for their looks than their taste.)

The memory of scent evokes other memories. A petal-soft cheek, the smear of coral lipstick against my face (where it will linger throughout the visit), and a tinkling, girlish giggle that I sometimes think I have inherited. Her kitten-heeled slippers with black fur pom-poms, deliciously silky. The piles of family memorabilia, old photographs and birthday cards. The off-kilter voice of her piano, where child-me would bang out a variety of unmelodious howlings whenever I visited. Not that she seemed to mind; she always delighted in her family's offerings of music, art, writing and stories, no matter how childish.

My Ouma is heading towards ninety years old. She is the matriach of an extended clan of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and sundry. She knows everybody's names, careers, spouses, interests and extended "aangetroude" ("married-on") family. I have never known her to forget a birthday. Every year, I look forward to our annual "Happy Birthday" conversation, where she tells me how my father called from the hospital to announce my arrival, and was crying so hard he had to hang up and call her back once he'd collected himself. These things are precious. Her ability to maintain a lively interest in so many human souls, some of whom she has never met, leaves me humbled.

Inevitably, the specter of guilt surfaces - I should spend more time with this remarkable lady.  She dearly wishes I would get married and have children, and although I have no intention of doing so, sometimes I think it's a pity I'll never be able to present her with another great-grandchild; I can only imagine her delight, and her kindness.

My psychology textbooks, as textbooks do, use a ludicrous number of words and a goodly dash of jargon to explain one simple fact: memories associated with scent last. They outlast other memories, and tend to be more intense.
What memories of scent do you have?