Of all our five senses — sight, sound, smell, taste, touch — most would say vision is the dearest.
They’re all important, sure, but how different if, say, butter pecan ice cream tasted like cheeseburgers. How dangerous it would be not hearing an oncoming train at a rural crossing that didn’t have arms saying “stop.”
How unfulfilling it would be if sandpaper and fleece could not be distinguished by fingertips. And how we would miss inhaling the odor of a just-washed and powdered baby, although there are some baby smells it’s just as well to miss out on.
Collectively, they’re wonderful; I was reminded of that the other day. And it came in a smell.
Sometimes in life, I’ve been accused of being British, missing a story or joke’s point, not catching on to something right away. I think I’ve gotten better at not being so naïve, maybe, but still sometimes I miss something. Fortunately it’s usually not all that important or fatal but the not knowing until later can be interesting.
You see, I thought aerosol deodorant sprays had gone the way of all flesh, outlawed because of damaging the ozone, letting in all the harmful outer space rays. I hadn’t seen any on shelves in a gazillion years but I hadn’t been looking for any, either.
But the other day as I made my way through a local establishment to resupply some toiletries, I noticed several cans of — and I’m not one to endorse products in this space — Right Guard. I’m not saying you must use it or that is necessarily my favorite. But it was the apparent favorite, judging from smell, of 28 guys who lived on second floor Mangum Dorm at UNC from 1966 to 1968. Our home away from home smelled like Right Guard.
I couldn’t resist. Bought some, went home, popped the top, gave out with a big ol’ spray ... immediately it was 1966 all over again.
Why? Why is a four-second burst of scented alcohol and whatever else is in there tied so closely to my mind and memory? Is it the same as certain versions of fried chicken and fried okra make me want my feet under Mama’s table again?
That old aroma put me to wondering where — and if — those guys still are. John Southern, who lived next door, became an Episcopal priest. Surprised me. Of course, how I turned out might surprise him. His roommate Sam Greathouse — aka “Frog,” because of his croaking voice — is a precious memory. Ditto for Mike Gabriel and Frank Sutton.
Aaron Clinnard is a lawyer in Thomasville or High Point — I think. Two guys across the hall — Chester Connors and Efrain Zambrana — are dentists, the former in Farmville and latter in Durham, I think. I’ve seen the Green boys, twins from Carthage, not so long ago. One of them — I never could tell them apart — went to work at the Duke Hospital pharmacy. Not sure about the other one. And I’ve run into their hometown buddy, also on our hall, Ted Lingerfeldt.
Paul Winberg, Frank Sutton’s roommate and chief cook on their room’s hot plate, became a Chapel Hill cop; later working HVAC — heating, ventilating and air conditioning. I saw him in Greenville, S.C., years ago when we were both in different lives.
I lost touch with my roommates. Bryan Salter was from about 50 miles east of Morehead City, a real “high (pronounced “hoy”) tider (pronounced “tighter”) if there ever was one. He was bright but in love with his hometown sweetheart, missing her so much that my sophomore year he went home for Christmas and didn’t come back. Later he became the Carteret County tax collector. After that, Alan Duncan, a freshman from Kannapolis, and I shared a room until I decided not to come back. He was in the Navy ROTC program, always shining his shoes and buttons. Last time I saw him was a hundred years ago when Shirley and I took in a movie at the Varsity on Franklin Street where he was making popcorn.
Interesting, isn’t it, how life goes on. I was pretty sure 55-plus years ago I would never lose contact with those guys and we would always remain tight, going on to change the world, hopefully for better
Now, when I do my morning routine, I spray, remember them, and wonder where it went. Thank goodness for the sense of smell.
If I’m lucky I may be able to find a bottle of Jade East or Canoe and, if so — watch out, high school, here I come.
Bob Wachs is a native of Chatham County and retired long-time managing editor of the Chatham News/Chatham Record, having written a weekly column for more than 30 years. During most of his time with the newspapers, he was also a bi-vocational pastor and today serves Bear Creek Baptist Church for the second time as pastor.