THE SUNDAY VISIT

That large white clapboard house on the hill had all kinds of secrets for me to explore, with distinctive smells in different parts according to content, cedar from grandma's bedroom wedding chest, apple and berries in the corner where preserves were made, lavender in bathrooms, powerful sea odors in the sunroom if cod was drying, not to forget that powerful creamy smell in the milk and butter room near the kitchen. The woodshed was a clear winner in long-lasting olfactive memories, but the barn and chicken coop not far behind. And then the house smelled wonderful on Sundays when her long table was set and big chunks of salmon, gleaming in assorted white bowls set next to other bowls containing steaming string beans and potatoes from her garden, flowers that she arranged while I spread a lot of fresh parsley and dill in little bunches in saucers. Before the guests even arrived, I always had a taste of that bread still hot with farm fresh butter on it. My mouth still waters when I close my eyes 65 years later. My uncles and aunts left Sunday late afternoon with their butter ration wrapped up in wax paper, their soap and loaves of bread, salmon and chicken leftovers, bones for their dogs, plus a bit of grandma's jam and preserves. Some of them had clothes that she had mended for them during the week. After too much food and too much laughter, we had to clean up with my aunt Georgette who was then unmarried and often stayed over to help. I was usually in bed before the work was completed, cooking up plans for the coming week as I fell asleep.

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