My Grandfather’s Cherry Tree
By Francine Paino, AKA F. Della Notte
A 2010 study published in The American Journal of Psychology found that “memories associated with smells were not necessarily more accurate, but tended to be emotionally more evocative.” How true!
From my office window in Austin, Texas, I look at the magnolia blossoms on the tree in front of my house. Pretty and pink, the blossoms are at the top of the tree. Too high up for me to reach and cut, I still enjoy their lovely fragrance when they fall to the ground. And that scent transports me 1,500 miles northeast and more than half a century past, with images of my grandfather’s cherry tree—a key to the portal unlocking memories of my life in an immigrant community.
My grandfather’s cherry tree didn’t grow, surrounded by green hills and grass. It grew in a crowded Italian ghetto: a city within a city. Corona, New York. Here, cement sidewalks and concrete streets only allowed for narrow curb strips of weeds in front of houses, separated by narrow alleys. Few residences had any space to speak of; my grandfather’s house was one.
Now, when I remember and look at pictures, I wonder how he dealt with the adjustment going from the grinding poverty of Sassano, Italy, surrounded by gently rolling hills, farms, trees, and greenery, to a somewhat better existence but encased in hard, cold, and grey surfaces. It’s a question I never did ask. I suppose his poverty-stricken but agrarian roots wouldn’t allow his small piece of the stark, utilitarian landscape to remain solid pavements of grey without a trace of nature. But back to the Cherry Tree.
Planted in a small patch of dirt in his yard, surrounded by cement, my grandfather’s cherry tree grew straight and tall. Its round trunk was encased in bark that looked so dark it could have been black. It gave off a sweet fragrance in early June, only perceptible in the early mornings before the smells of car exhaust, trash, vent fumes, and the brick, mortar, and wood from the close-together homes crowded it out. Once spring arrived, windows were kept open, and the aroma of cooking wafted out, joining the profusion of smells that swept the neighborhood. As sweet as the tree’s fragrance was, its fruit was mainly sour and enjoyed by the birds more than the family.
According to the charts, cherry trees in the northeast had and still have edible fruits by the third week of June, and I recall birds pecking at them and dropping some of the ripened cherries into the cement yard. My grandmother would sweep them up fast, lest they get under our shoes and dirty her faded but clean linoleum floor. However, the cherry tree’s memories do not stop there. Like tendrils on a vine, places, events, and smells latch on to the Prunus Serotina.
In New York City, public schools in the 1950s were let out by the middle of June. That meant I could help my grandfather tend his little farm two blocks from the house, nestled between dilapidated houses on either side of the property and protected by an eight-foot tall chain link fence that ran the perimeter of the entire lot. The land in his little enclosure always smelled earthy. He’d fertilized it before the planting began. There were rows of corn, cabbage, zucchini, and Swiss Chard. There was an area dedicated to lettuce. The corn always had a slightly sweet and earthy odor. I have no recollection of smelling the growing cabbages or zucchini. Still, when I sauté garlic, I often recall Grandmother doing the same, then frying thick slices of zucchini and smothering them in a rich marinara sauce to finish cooking.
Perhaps my favorite olfactory memory is the fragrances from the herb garden. The lemony aroma of thyme is still one of my favorites, as are the peppery scent of oregano and the sweet, refreshing smell of basil. My grandfather would smile when he handed me a full bouquet of basil. Maybe he already knew the beneficial effects of basil when I’d bury my nose in it and breathe deep before walking back the three crowded city streets to the house with the cherry tree.
As a child raised in this hybrid environment, half city life, half farm life, I took these scents for granted. Didn’t everyone have them?
I’m amazed about how much smell has gained scientific support for its impact on different areas of life, besides memories of days gone by. Scientists at Brown University looked at 18 studies about aromachology. They found that smelling lavender can indeed relax you, make you less stressed, and even help you awaken more rested. Researchers examined studies about other scents like rosemary, peppermint, and orange. They propose that rosemary may help you sleep better, improve memory, and help with hair growth. Peppermint might boost physical performance, and the smell of oranges can reduce anxiety and help you feel more content or happier. Of course, more research is needed, If nothing else, taking the time to enjoy the fragrances is already a step in slowing down and smelling the roses – in this case the aromatic plants.
When discussing memory stimulants and other benefits of scents, coffee, while not an herb, cannot be left out of the conversation. Scientists would have us smell the coffee to wake up, reporting that the aroma alone of my preferred caffeine brew would awaken us. That can work, but I’ll continue drinking the coffee after its perfume fills my kitchen. Then I’ll smell everything else.
Enjoy!
https://www.brownalumnimagazine.com/articles/2008-03-26/scents-sensibility
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5198031/
https://www.healthline.com/nutrition/rosemary-oil-benefits
https://www.livescience.com/2614-whiff-coffee-wake.html
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