The Smell

Oft times when I am cutting grass, the smell that the grass emanates takes me back many years to the fall of 1979. When I smell that smell, I remember how the grass smelled in Chanelle-Lee football stadium as we did pre-game warm ups. And I remember standing at the top of the stairs leading down to the field, and looking in amazement at the sea of people who had given up a couple of hours on a Friday night to watch football when it was real, and kids played in hopes of somehow securing their legacy in a town already riddled with memories of their own versions of Friday Night Lights. WE were Friday Night Lights before the world knew of Friday Night Lights.

I remember the sounds of our cleats as we walked down the stairs in our armour: pads, gold pants, gold helmets, and black jerseys with gold numbers. And I remember being able to always hear Johnny-O’s drums over everyone else’s as we ran on the field and the band played our fight song. And I remember looking up to the band section to make sure Johnny-O was there because, in a lot of ways, I was playing for him as much as I was me.

And I remember how nervous I would be standing on that goal line, waiting for the opening kick off, hoping like hell I didn’t drop the ball. But mostly, I remember the silence I felt when the ball was in the air, and how I couldn’t hear anything but my thoughts and breathing until the play was dead. The sounds of the fans were deafening to me, but I remember not wanting to be anywhere else but on that field. My life, my entire being was tied to Friday nights.

The taste of grass, the burning of the sweat, the pain from being tackled, and the painkillers that somehow got me through the games. All of this I remember just from the smell from cutting the grass.

So it shouldn’t really surprise me as much as it did when The Future and I were riding bikes today and I smelled something that reminded me of my father. I can’t remember the smell and I don’t know how to describe it, but it was as if he were there.

It shook me a little because I have done a fairly decent job of isolating my thoughts about him so that they don’t overtake me at weird times. Some times, though, when I think of the way his belt buckle shook when he laughed or I go back and read the cards that friends sent after he died, I can’t help but cleanse my soul with a good ol’ fashioned cry. In fact, I am tearing up now because that smell is making me miss him.

Sure, I may not have been there as often as I should have. I may not have called regularly like Thomas did. Yes, my lack of communication may have made my parents nervous and all. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t love him any less than anyone else. And it doesn’t mean that I don’t miss him at times. It just means that I now know him through this smell that I can’t identify and am assured he is OK.