My Father’s Scent

   There are two aromas in this world that upon reaching my olfactory sense can whisk me away to my childhood home,  turpentine and a fine pipe tobacco blend with a touch of cherry. As the work place of an artist using oil paint on wood, my  father’s studio reeked of turpentine and linseed oil with his sweet pipe smoke fighting for supremacy. I grew up loving the  smell of pipe smoke so much that I tried smoking one; even though, I am female and appeared quite ridiculous. I quickly  gave it up, when I realized that the taste of pipe smoke could be quite different from the smell. And, even though my  father splashed on Old Spice aftershave everyday, it is the smell of turpentine or pipe smoke that sparks my longing to see  him again. I know what it is. The turpentine and pipe smoke embrace the very thing I love most about my father. It was  what he loved most in his life, his work.

   My father’s father worked in one of the big steel plants in Cleveland, Ohio. It was a very good job with fantastic benefits.  Grandpa Goodrum wanted my father to follow in his footsteps and carve out a secure life in steel. But, Dad had other ideas.  His hands would never handle anything mightier than a paintbrush. However, with a stroke of his mighty paintbrush, he painted  my childhood beautiful.
   I never noticed the financial strain of my father’s profession. The old homes he rented at a reduced price would receive the  special Don Goodrum new paint treatment. The rich contrasting tones shouted at visitors, “Artists live here!” I remember  lemon kitchens with celery trim. One of our houses had a floor painted robin’s eggshell blue with an overlay of bright paint  splatters. All our living room walls resembled an art gallery with paintings carefully displayed for viewing. I remember the  thundering classical music that filled our home while my dad worked. I remember the candlelight, incense-filled evenings of  lively conversations with other artists, dancers, playwrights and poets who sat around on big cushions and wicker furniture  discussing the controversial issues of the 1960s. Best of all, I remember the pride I felt every time someone asked me,  “What does your father do for a living?” Standing a little taller, I declared, “My father is an artist.

   Besides the paintings my father created and sometimes sold, he also worked on commercial renderings for architects. This was the businessman side of Dad, the hustler. My stepmother would pick out some tasteful but colorful clothing combination that included a jacket, never a tie. With his leather portfolio under his arm, he would head out in the morning, and say, “Need to hustle up work for bread and butter money.” When he returned with an assignment, he would work literally around the clock to “knock it out of the way,” so he could return to the oil painting in progress drying on the easel. This system worked well for my father because painting with oil has down time built into the process. Sometimes, my dad had more than one painting in progress, but usually, he used the oil’s drying time for his commercial projects. Flexible artists have several avenues available to them for earning a living.
   One of these avenues, Dad’s seasonal work as set designer for our local playhouse, opened a different world for me to explore. As a child, I worked side by side with local college kids while we painted the designated area with the designated color. I loved to eaves drop on their conversations about college.
   “Just slap it on,” were my father’s instructions returning my attention to the task at hand.
On opening night, I dressed up and attended the production I had seen rehearsed a hundred times. Often, I stood out in the lobby near my father’s one-man art show and handed out his brochures that described his life and work. Sometimes, I helped backstage with the props. Once, I got to run the spotlight for South Pacific when illness struck the regular attendant. Usually, I enjoyed the plays from my seat in the audience.
   The playhouse only ran in the winter season, during which the wealthy “snow birds,” as we called them, would flock to Florida and their winter homes in our small coastal town. Even though we were on the fringe of this upper crust society, our lives often intertwined. Some patron of the playhouse in whose exquisite home my brothers and I would dreamily meander through always hosted the playhouse cast parties. We were careful not to touch anything except the elaborate feast of culinary treats. At these times, I pretended to be a princess of royal blood attending a grand gala. At some point, I decided that this la-de-da world was a fine place to visit but not to stay. And so, my father’s advice of “you can fall in love with a rich man as easily as you can fall in love with a poor man” often fell upon deaf ears. I preferred a man with a quest.

   My father was rarely serious with me. Although, my stepmother told me later there was a serious, even moody, side, I never saw it. He would wake us up every morning dancing around the house, waving his arms, and singing nonsensical songs. One of my favorites went, “I’ll be around. If I’m not a square, I’ll be a round.” Later in life, when I read J. R. R. Tolkein’s trilogy The Lord of the Rings, I found my father portrayed in the character Tom Bombadil. My dad was down-right jolly, and with his white hair, he imitated the quintessential Santa Claus perfectly every Christmas. This was the father his three lucky children remember.
   My father’s sense of purpose and quest-filled life imprinted upon his children a special courage. The courage to live a life outside of the mainstream of society. The courage to seize a quest, and hold to through any storm. The courage to carve a self-made niche from the raw granite of life in a way never done before. One of my brothers lives on a forty-foot sailboat and does missionary work with the Caribbean impoverished, while my other brother achieved financial success through his oil investment firm. As for me, I am a writer. I have tromped through a life filled with extraordinary experiences and people; the stories of which fill my mind to bursting. I have not experienced success with my writing. I am just beginning. However, I am confident that the courage handed down to me by my father will sustain me through the challenges of my newfound quest. And, if I should quiver and shake with fear, I need only to step into a pipe shop or open a new can of turpentine, and the courage rushes in with the memories.

Donalee Goodrum
September 22, 2001