the smell of oldton

Each spot on earth has its particular ambient odor ---
its own bouquet of molds, mildews, droppings and detritus.

"Oldton, Oldton, Oldton . . ." we kids got so tired of hearing Gramps and Grannie sigh. "Oldton, Oldton, Oldton . . . " the vacation destination of their youth, back in the '20s, the stories repeated for the thousandth time. "D'ye remember that bed in the Inn at Oldton?" Gales of laughter. "The headboard banging like a drum corps then the whole thing collapsing right down to the floor." We'd roll our eyes and say "Ooooh, ick! Gramps --- put a sock in it!"

Only once did we visit . . . it must have been in the early '60s. We could hardly believe our eyes that this little dump of a burg was the legendary Oldton. The famous Inn was still there. The famous room was now the innkeeper's office.
Grannie: "I wonder if the walls still show the mark of the headboard."
Us: "Grannie! Eaaaughh! Cut it out!"
Setting our suitcases down in our room. Gramps and Grannie
sit together on the bed. Deep breath.
"Ahhhh. Same smell"
We smelled it, too.
Spice, gunpowder, woolen lint, mold, antique soap, and a hint of
febrile badger.
Each spot on earth has its particular ambient odor.
I'd recognize Oldton's instantly, were I to sniff it again.
But if one is to believe young Wright, I'll never have the chance.

Rob Wittig
Duluth, Minnesota, USA
June 16, 2004

Comments

[timw]

Hi Rob

How great to get a mail from you. I am such a fan of your work.

Not sure whether your grandparents stayed at the Inn or the hotel. Either way, that wasn't badger you smelt - it was blue boar, or it was white hart (see other Oldton entries) - or possibly Pye dog but that's another story. Can you confirm which? Not sure I know what a hart smells like.

As for lost smells, I refer you to... http://www.poemhunter.com/p/m/poem.asp?poet=3152&poem=198584

I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,
Sniff them and think and sniff again and try
Once more to think what it is I am remembering,
Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one.
I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray
And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing;
Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait
For what I should, yet never can, remember;
No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush
Of Lad’s-love, or Old Man, no child beside,
Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate;
Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end

Cheers

Tim Wright
http://www.writersforthefuture.com
http://timwright.typepad.com

[rob wittig]

Tim ---

Thanks for the message and the poem.

The Grands used to talk about a White Tart at Oldton . . . or at least
that's what we thought they were saying. Could that be a clue?

Rob

[The fertile badger]

This troubles me greatly but I appreciate the mention of badgers