I never particularly liked petunias. They don’t have much of a perfume, and they never really fit into the overall design of my barely tamed rock garden filled with plants that don’t need watering and have the decency to come back every year on their own anyway.
My grandmother loved petunias. Each summer, she would fill spare planters and flower beds with their bright blooms. She died several years ago, and I never thought much about petunias after that.
But one day, when I was in a garden shop checking out the newest perennials, I happened upon a petunia riot of pinks and purples and reds and a soft blueish color. Their scent – really just the faintly spicy aroma of their leaves – instantly transported me to my grandmother’s patio.
In her honor, I bought several petunia plants, transplanted them into a pot and set them on my deck. Loving the hot morning sun and cool nights, they thrived. Ever since then, I’ve decorated my deck with petunias each summer.
They are cheerful flowers that bloom over and over, and they’ve weathered hailstorms and windstorms. On rare days when the sun doesn’t shine, they glow in the gloom.
I admit they have won me over with their brilliant display. But I most appreciate the way their scent sparks a memory. Scientists say that the sense of smell – the very first to develop in our bodies – is the strongest sense and can trigger strong, almost photographic, memories.
The acrid smell of wood smoke in the air reminds my family of the first days of the Hayman fire that roared through the forest a quarter mile from our house in 2002. The smell of baking bread takes me back to my mother’s kitchen, where homemade cinnamon rolls were on the menu every Saturday. The scent of a newly mowed soccer field in the park near our house (the only refined grass around) conjures up memories of a backyard hide-and-seek game when I was growing up in Iowa. The aroma of pipe tobacco transports me to a time years ago when my father was a pipe smoker.
My grandmother loved petunias. Each summer, she would fill spare planters and flower beds with their bright blooms. She died several years ago, and I never thought much about petunias after that.
But one day, when I was in a garden shop checking out the newest perennials, I happened upon a petunia riot of pinks and purples and reds and a soft blueish color. Their scent – really just the faintly spicy aroma of their leaves – instantly transported me to my grandmother’s patio.
In her honor, I bought several petunia plants, transplanted them into a pot and set them on my deck. Loving the hot morning sun and cool nights, they thrived. Ever since then, I’ve decorated my deck with petunias each summer.
They are cheerful flowers that bloom over and over, and they’ve weathered hailstorms and windstorms. On rare days when the sun doesn’t shine, they glow in the gloom.
I admit they have won me over with their brilliant display. But I most appreciate the way their scent sparks a memory. Scientists say that the sense of smell – the very first to develop in our bodies – is the strongest sense and can trigger strong, almost photographic, memories.
The acrid smell of wood smoke in the air reminds my family of the first days of the Hayman fire that roared through the forest a quarter mile from our house in 2002. The smell of baking bread takes me back to my mother’s kitchen, where homemade cinnamon rolls were on the menu every Saturday. The scent of a newly mowed soccer field in the park near our house (the only refined grass around) conjures up memories of a backyard hide-and-seek game when I was growing up in Iowa. The aroma of pipe tobacco transports me to a time years ago when my father was a pipe smoker.
My dad lost his sense of smell decades ago. Several studies have linked that loss to Alzheimer's, with which he was recently diagnosed. For years, he has missed out on the good - and bad - smells that have surrounded him. Now, other forms of his memory are leaving him. But when I told him about the petunias, planted in honor of his mother, he smiled, and remembered.
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