It's funny how the smell of Youth Dew takes me back to Christmas mornings, and how the feel of a stiff pillowcase reminds me of sleeping at my grandma's house. I heard All Summer Long by the Beach Boys, and I suddenly remembered the gear shift knob in Natalie's 1966 GTO (yellow with a black vinyl roof.) It's like I have a rewind button attached to my senses.
Today I smelled freshly laid asphalt, and I was transported back to a summer day when I was ten. Our street had just received a shiny black coat to cover the winter pot holes, and I dashed across barefoot while it was still hot and sticky. Just a whiff of tar in the air reminded me of picking the burning muck off my feet.
I just found this photo of my little boys. I can remember the sturdy canvas of the plaid pants, and the worn softness of the red jumpsuit. I know how their hair felt, and the detail of little cracks in their chapped cheeks. I can imagine the orange and brown crocheted afghan that was laying on the floor, and I can hear John-boy Walton on the TV. It's been 32 years, yet it's so vivid that it could be last month.
When I had little kids I was in their time zone. Rainy afternoons of putting the cushions back on the couch could last forever. Waiting for Saturday, or Dad to come home was as hard for me as it was for them. I couldn't imagine a day when I wouldn't have pieces of play dough stuck in the carpet and a bottle of amoxicillin in the fridge. There were no remotes in those days, so I didn't understand the concept of fast forward. It didn't matter. It happened anyway.
I wouldn't want to go back and actually live those days again. They were happy, but they were demanding. I'm glad I have a rewind button that zooms me back in time for a visit, though. And I wish I'd used the pause button more often.
What triggers your rewind button?