It came to mind from the aroma of a candle Mia sent me. Each time I lit it, the rich, earthy fragrance brought hazy images briefly into view, only to vanish amid so many forgotten days.
I'd light the candle again, and back they'd come.
Out of focus, but strong.
One day, with the faint but familiar fragrance still lingering, still teasing my middle-aged mind, I reached for the candle and turned it over, hoping the label would reveal something - anything - that might re-animate my mislaid memories.
And there it was, my answer. Tobacco.
Almost immediately, a clear vision from those indistinct days came to me; a beautiful memory of a place I revered without really knowing why.
Instantly, I was back in Mr. Gould's den, tucked in the corner of the Gould's grey-green, two chimney, Colonial, which sat a short block from the edge of Lake Michigan.
You could find it by heading straight east down Scranton Avenue, the main street of Lake Bluff's hardly-a-downtown-business-district. The old house sat in a quiet spot with tree-filled lots and winding ravines and looked as if it had been there almost as long as the venerable trees which commanded the neighborhood.
Stepping into the Gould's house was always something of a marvel to me, like stepping into Mr Peabody's Wayback Machine and setting the dial to "a long time ago."
Everything from its old plaster and uneven, wood floors, to its cozy nooks and small, sunlit rooms, filled with musty, dusty, fascinating things, incited my imagination and a lifelong love of history.
And oh, how I loved the kitchen - old bricks and beams - and always smelling of fresh-baked bread.
After school, Betsy and I would cut thick slices off a golden brown loaf cooling on the tall counter and sink our teeth into the still warm, chewy insides that hinted of honey and butter and left our fingers powdered with flour and my stomach hungry for more.
With final crusts of bread stuffed into our mouths, we'd climb the steep, narrow, crooked flight of stairs to Betsy's room, straight ahead. Two rooms, really. One being her bedroom, the other, a small, summer porch with walls of windows, which generations of restless sleepers swung open to invite in the cool lake breezes during the dependably hot and humid Midwest summer nights.
I could feel its cots-and-cotton-nightgowns' past.
I could hear the old Victrola winding down - tinny, scratchy and lazy to finish; finally surrendering to the cicadas in the tall trees singing loudly for their mates.
Before the piles of fabric, patterns and other sewing stuff cluttered the small, bright room at the corner of the Gould's old Colonial on Scranton Avenue, where we'd spread out across Betsy's high bed and talk dreamily about our four favorite men: John, Paul, George and Ringo; and spin their albums until daylight left and my ride home appeared.
The rest of the upstairs was a mystery to me, being two-thirds occupied by teen brothers, whose rare appearances and even rarer visits to Betsy's room usually lasted briefly and annoyed her thoroughly.
It simply scared the shit out of me.
On occasion, when Betsy sought out her dad during my visits, we'd wander back down the creaky, old stairs, through the dark entry hall (which no one ever seemed to enter through) to the one and only place I ever recall seeing Betsy's Dad.
His den.
With a timid rap on the solid, old door, we'd hear his gentle voice give permission to enter this space.
His special place.
His sanctuary.
And it was here, as the door opened and I entered behind my best friend, HERE that the smell of sweet and spicy, earthy and smoky, became a part of me.
As did Mr. Gould, at his desk, with his pipe, sweatered like the perfect professor.
Ever engaging his hands and his mind.
Creating.
Drawing.
Building dreams.
And ships in bottles.
Magnificent, masted vessels of extraordinary detail, masterfully constructed, delicately painted and meticulously engineered within ridiculously constrained confines. When finished, the newest ship would join the miniature armada that floated on a sea of books on the den's wooden shelves, near paneled walls and paned windows with mustard-colored drapes.
Each night, Betsy once told me, her dad would invariably enter his den, close those long, yellow curtains and sit behind his desk where he busied his hands and blocked out the world. Yet each time and every time a car drove by, Mr. Gould would stop whatever he was doing, draw the drapes back - just enough to watch the car pass - and then close them again and return to his task.
And his deliciously fragrant pipe.
And his secret snacks - Pepsi and Fritos - hidden beneath his desk.
And there he'd stay, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, making beautiful things for make-believe worlds.
How I would have loved to explore the shelves, the books, the ships in bottles, the glass-topped coffee table filled with dusty shells and sticky sand from spilled milks.
The mind of this quiet, creative man.
Out of reach as a child, these thoughts now reach out to me.
Calling me back to the old, two-chimney, grey-green Colonial on Scranton Avenue.
To Betsy's Dad's den.
To his ships, his pipe and its sweet aroma.
To fresh baked bread.
And lazy afternoons.
With best friends.
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