There is something about the onset of cold weather that snaps my senses into sharp relief. I remember climbing in the Buick, leather interior making the air inside crackle with each tiny move—the squeak as I nestled myself into the hug of an adjustable seat; the first crack of the candy shell of the Clorets Momma Bullard would distribute around the car, and the smacking that followed until spit and sweet came together to add to the smell I always associated with Sunday morning—the swirl of spearmint and Stetson, powder and pomade.
Once situated, if all was completely still, I could hear the dry rustle of two precious hands rubbing in lotion from a tiny tube, probably something from a Christmas gift assortment from years past she finally got around to using—a whispering shoosh becoming a slick squish, the rattle of a pearl bracelet, the click of rings received with a promise now made over forty years ago. Sometimes she'd get too much; she’d slide one of my hands through both of hers to share the extra. <SNIFF> Gingerbread. I KNEW it.
The hymn hum/whistle, preparation for the congregation, would come next—always a favorite. Pop put his teeth together for that shrillness that was nearly too big for the car, making harmony while sweet Mom hummed (open-mouthed to hold her own against the din of Dad's dental ditty), often winding her way through a few keys before we got to the second chorus, all hummed ‘round the gum, and he'd just keep modulating with her while I grinned quietly, pocketing the Post-It with the page numbers, waiting to share it with the rest of the church family during service. My folks were in good with the song director; this was the preview before the main event.
I miss those feels, as I trade the sedan for the subway and too often swap the hymns of a country church for audition selections. But every once in a while, I come across a silver fox that douses himself in a familiar aftershave or see Clorets in a bodega check-out line, and I can’t help but smile at those pungent memories that push through the cold. And there’s a stone entryway with practically perfect acoustics near Union Square that may have heard a Southern gentleman’s rendition of “Amazing Grace” more than once in this big, bad city.