Marigolds get a bad rap. They’re the Vanilla Ice of the plant world. Sure they’re common. And they’re orange. And yellow. But for me, they have a smell that reminds me of the beginning. They may have been one of the first things placed in my tabula rasa centerpiece.
I recently read an article that pointed to 10 scents that will instantly remind someone of a specific memory – whether good or bad. One of the smells was a new textbook. For me it’s marigolds. And boxwood. And a wood fire burning charcoal. Also Everybody Loves Raymond. Not because of its smell, but because my father would always watch it and I thought it was the stupidest show on television. And now, I watch it and laugh. Ugh, that’s some kind a full-circle nonsense – we do become our parents in the end, don’t we?
I write this now because my hands smell like marigolds. I was watering the garden, snapping off their dead heads like Henry VIII. And I needed to let them know how much I appreciate them. I don’t think I tell them enough. Especially when I’m snapping off their heads.