19 May 2010
Roses are red and smell like memories
For me, some of the most intoxicatingly nostalgic scents are those of the flowers that used to grow in my nan's and mum's gardens - jonquils, daffs, jasmine, orange flowers, and roses like Mr Lincoln, Peter Frankenfeld and Blue Moon. Smell one of these when I'm not expecting it and *BAM*
I'm seven years old, walking up Essington Street with my dad on a warm summer evening, the cicadas droning. We've left our thongs at home and the footpath is still warm from the sun, even though it's getting dark now and the streetlights are on. We walk half way up the street and through the alley to Fullagar Road, and hanging heavy over a sagging paling fence is a jasmine vine, wafting that perfume into the warm breeze. I look up; it's huge and dark and wild with tendrils reaching all over the place and those waxy white flowers dripping nearly to the ground....
We're at nan's for afternoon tea. There's scotch finger biscuits in a glass dish and lemon squash for me. Pa sits serenely at the head of the table, like a quiet fisherman, watching his mug of coffee. Bikkies gone; my brother Greg and I head outside to play. Nan and I walk behind the cool dank shadehouse at the bottom of the garden to the sunny fence where her roses grow, each labelled in her neat handwriting on a little metal tag. If I was lucky, she'd snip some with the secateurs for me to take home, especially my favourite, Mr Lincoln. Then I'd hide under a giant wine coloured weeping maple which curved to the ground and made a little cave underneath.
Yes, that photo is of me with our pup Cleo at mum's place, and that little garden running along the left hand side is where a Peter Frankenfeld still grows. I still always, always stop to smell those roses when they're in bloom.
Finally, here's some beautiful rose themed finds from madeit (and look at that cute little brooch, third row down on the right...!).