Fern Glen Essays
Scents and Scentsibility
by Judy Sullivan

It's said that olfactory experiences evoke more intense memories than any other of our senses. The fragrances of rising yeast dough and butcher's wax instantly transport me back to a childhood of after-school cinnamon rolls and newly polished floors...so useful when imagining oneself an Olympic skater. The smells of horse manure and leather make me smile because they recall my very stable daughter, while whiffs of automotive grease and Indian cooking wrap me in a secure, spousal embrace.

Computer technology has yet to invent software that can capture an aroma. I'm not certain of whether or not this is a good thing. On one hand, it prevents me from engaging your interest via your nostrils. On the other, a wordy description may just lure (or chase) you away from safe and sedentary habits to embark on a scentimental journey that gives you nostalgia for springs past, and sharp anticipation of the weeks ahead.

For now, allow your mind to dwell on things vernal. The caress of the first balmy breezes. Tumescent buds, bursting through their winter jackets. The winsome warbling of red winged blackbirds, absorbed in sweet rituals of courtship and domesticity. An earthy fragrance, not unlike the combination of rotting meat and charred peanuts.

Indeed, the latter description is entirely accurate and should be most welcome. For that unique perfume belongs to the scentsational skunk cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus. The genus name (pronounced Sim-ploe-car'-pus, harking back to the Greek for "connected fruit") is not likely to make a lasting impression. However "foetidus" (foe-e'-ti-dus), now there's a memorable mnemonic in itself!

What a pity that a fetid odor is commonly associated with things disagreeable. For Symplocarpus is, in fact, the botanical embodiment of so many human virtues.

First of these is bravery. Thoreau penned an entry in his copious journal that speaks to the heart, exhorting those afflicted with autumnal melancholy to "go to the swamps" and "see the brave spears of skunk cabbage already advanced toward a new year." Throughout that unforgiving season, its shoots thrust upward through the soil, jabbing at a wintry sky like an imperious finger at an unwelcome intruder.

Next is warmth, quite literally. One is drawn to the newly opened sheath as to a hearth on the tundra. The temperature within its hood can rise to almost tropical heights of 65-70° F. (What potential could ambitious plant breeders tap toward reducing our Mideast oil dependency!) This makes them a welcome haven for newly emerged insects, still groggy from a winter's slumber.

Third on our list of virtues is humility. While we may view the glossy shroud, deepest maroon and bespattered with pale green, as most stately, science will say that it is nothing more than artifice to attract flies and carrion beetles, resembling, as it may, a skinned carcass. A plant that caters to flies can never aspire to social prominence.

Lastly they are generous to serve. Spring has not hurled herself into summer before these cabbage leaves unfurl, so expansive, so glossy, and so intensely green. They declare themselves boldly, but with such grace. Shade and shelter to small animals and insects. Ah, chevalier!

We are led by the nose to a marvel of nature. Reluctant to embark, yet gladdened by our destination. Let us breathe deeply and create an olfactive memory that evokes the most fleeting, but still sweetest, of seasons.

Questions, comments, or other feedback to Judy Sullivan.