16% of my childhood transpired in rural Maryland circa 1986–1989. Our split-foyer home was in a small development built during the previous decade. Lacking central air, we used box fans in the summer and the one-two punch of a wood-burning stove and kerosene heater as the temperature waned. Times were quaint as I waved goodbye to ages seven, eight, and nine.
Photographs nudge my memory to recall events that would have otherwise faded. Mom and I standing near a large boulder: camping trip with my brother’s Boy Scouts troop, the last time I slept outdoors (fear of forest-based wildlife and dirt-based mattresses). Posed in the backyard with extended family members: First Communion, the last time I felt jazzed about Catholicism (fear of confession closets and retribution).
More readily accessible are glimpses of sensory moments. River Raid high scores scribbled on a notepad. Toaster Strudels for breakfast. A turntable stacker dropping 45s. Swims in the deep end of a creek. Honeysuckle nectar. Crayfish, fireflies, box turtles. Sunbeams through our living room window.
The smell of freshly cut grass. Demonstrated by a popular subset of scented products, many current adults were raised in the suburbs and share the nostalgic fondness. Mine specifically stems from our half acre lawn in Maryland. Neighbors had similarly sized plots and on any given spring or summer weekend, the whole development smelled of post-lawnmower parfum.
A complementary red undertone to this very green story, our next door neighbor pruned his finger as he dislodged a stone from his jammed mower blades. (Never do that, says the person who witnessed this and years later stuck her finger in a jammed immersion blender.) Heeding his wife’s call for help, I was rewarded with a close-up look at a bloody, mangled hand.
Gaping wounds notwithstanding, my brothers and I spent eons outdoors, sometimes with friends, mostly with each other. Our neighbor in the back parked a trailer in his yard and housed within it an aquarium full of snakes. (How many people can truthfully utter those words?) That and our own sprawling log pile ensured we loitered around the property line, as far from the house as possible yet still technically within its boundary. Life on the edge, obedient child style.
We restored energy for future outdoor escapades with help from PBS, MTV, and the turntable. As CDs crested the horizon, one of the last LPs my parents purchased was Dwight Yoakam’s debut Guitars, Cadillacs, Etc. Etc. The title track, the only one I remember, is an auditory DeLorean. Released on March 12, 1986, it entered our home on the cusp of grass-cutting season and soundtracked many a sweet, green weekend morning. Scent and sound forever linked.
After we graduated to CDs, other notable albums filled the air. Graceland. The Lonesome Jubilee. Tango in the Night. My brothers and I spent a little more time with friends. One of mine would later commit a heinous crime, a prime example where my parents were 100% correct in their character assessment. I couldn’t see past our mutual love of NKOTB. On the other hand, my grade school crush is now Taylor Swift’s tour drummer. So I batted .500 as a rookie.
Decades after that period of my life, its formative and enduring nature is apparent. The last carefree years of my childhood, things changed in 1989 when my dad’s job forced our relocation. No more than two years later, he started his own business and worked much longer hours. Stress from the move, a fourth pregnancy, and my dad’s evolving career ignited neural and emotional changes in my mom. Misfits amongst classmates reared in Amish country, my brothers and I underwent a variety of personality changes too. We all adapted as best we could yet life was never easygoing after that. (Happy to have a sister though 👯)
When my daughter still took naps, I slept with her as my work schedule allowed. To relax body and mind each afternoon, I imagined riding in a car on a twisty tree-lined street to the same destination each time: the deep end of a creek. Before I drifted to sleep, I climbed down the dirt bank, waded in, splashed around with my brothers, reached down to catch crayfish. I imagine my mom watched to make sure I was safe — to offer a level of comfort and reassurance most of us lack after we reach adulthood.
A late 80s fever dream was my weighted nap blanket. It’s the same reason I’m enamored with eau de suburbs and Dwight’s song. They calm my nervous system and remind me of a time when I frolicked more and worried less. I hope to offer my daughter the same retrospective serenity — a feeling so strong it can be summoned as a drug-free tranquilizer 30 years later.
Has a phase of your life become unusually comforting as you look back? Do you have a song or memory that functions as a weighted blanket? I’d love to hear about it in the comments below.
To quote the great James Hoffman, thank you so much for reading and I hope you have a great day.
Painting at top: Freshly Cut Grass © 2024 Christine Collister
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