The Nose Knows

A few thoughts on smells and storytelling.

The other day, I saw a Facebook friend paying homage to Smokey Bear. It was the 80th birthday of the U.S. Forest Service’s iconic mascot, and I was down for it.

I’ve always liked animal mascots, and as a child, Smokey was one of my favorites. He had a calm, authoritative demeanor about him as he reminded us problematic humans that only we “can prevent forest fires.” I was also pretty high on Woodsy Owl and the KIMN Chicken.

Even as an adult, I rarely pass on an animal-mascot photo op. (Case in point, meet Arty the Aardvark. He’s a proud ambassador for the local community college, and an all around good dude.)

But today’s newsletter isn’t about furries. There was more to my friend’s story. He explained how Smokey Bear was special to him growing up, because his father was a U.S. Forest Service ranger who accompanied the mascot on school visits. He also described the cherished memory of his father coming home smelling like wood smoke, on the days that he had to fight forest fires (because not everyone listens to Smokey).

It was a sweet story — one I can relate to. Not in regard to fighting fires, but rather the smell.

My father worked for decades as pipefitter at a rather famous beer brewery at the foot of the Colorado Rocky Mountains. He’d leave the house every weekday morning before anyone else was up, and when he’d arrive back home a little before five in the evening, he’d walk through the door from the garage smelling like…

Well, I wasn’t really sure what it was at the time, just that it was a strong, distinct odor that I associated with hard, blue-collar work that long supported a family of four. He started the job when I was just one (maybe even younger), and retired from it years after I went off to college. I think now that the smell was probably a combination of yeast fermentation, rotting grain, and sweat.

My father was well aware of it, and reliably shed his work clothes the minute he got home. Between his trade and his post-dinner wogging (he was an early adopter, who seemingly covered half the city most nights), our laundry machine put in a lot of extra work.

I’ve long associated scents with memories — perhaps more than most people do. It’s usually in terms of a specific person, some still alive and some who’ve passed on. With my dad, it’s the brewery smell. With my grandfather, Kolman (who my character Sean Coleman was partly named after), it’s a tobacco pipe. With one of my aunts, it’s the baby powder she used (and probably still uses) on her skin. With both grandmothers, it’s their respective specialty cookies. And with an old college roommate, it’s a damp, humid smell unrelated to cleanliness (an explanation for which I’ll always be too uncomfortable to ask). There are more examples, but I don’t want to offend an individual or two who might read this newsletter. 😉

Those of you who’ve read my Sean Coleman Thrillers have probably noticed that I’m a very detailed writer. As part of that detail, I enjoy incorporating smell into my stories.

Sometimes its the aforementioned scent of family, and childhood nostalgia:

That day, Sean’s father had taught him to shoot. He taught him how to load, align the sights, take a deep breath, and squeeze that trigger. Sitting in the car alone now, with that gun in his hand in an unfamiliar place, Sean drifted back to that day long ago. He felt his father’s large arms around him, helping him to steady his aim; his father’s chin draped over his shoulder; the smell of chewing tobacco from his father’s shirt pocket. Take a breath, steady yourself, and squeeze.

Sometimes it’s to set a scene:

After selling his blood plasma at the bank for several weeks, he still hadn’t quite gotten used to the stench in the air—a mix of iodine and bleach. The smell emitted from all corners of every room.

They glided forward, past a few more pillars, until they slid under the shade of the deck of the bridge that hovered above. There, the familiar smell of brine and decaying sea life reminded the lawman of the creamed corn he’d had with his dinner the night before. Above the sporadic fuss of automobiles crossing overhead were the shouts of two young voices.

Sometimes it’s for simple comedic relief:

“Do you smell that?” asked Jefferson.

Lumbergh raised an eyebrow. “Smell what?”

Jefferson tilted his head back and let his nostrils flare.

“You don’t smell that? It’s kind of like perfume.”

The chief shook his head and answered, “That’s my cologne, Jefferson. I had plans with my wife tonight, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Okay,” Jefferson said discreetly. “It smells good.”

“Thanks.”

Sometimes it comes when one’s life is flashing before their eyes:

His mind darted straight to [spoiler] and he knew that there would be no greater test of her steadfastness among crisis than his death. He saw her long, wavy hair dangling above him and smelled her scent through his own sweat. When the wide, crooked, and sadistic smile of the man with the silver hair rose above the hood of his Jeep, he felt as though he had been hit by another bullet, not of lead but of punishing angst.

I’m currently working on the sixth Sean Coleman Thriller, and I can report at this time that it’s chocked full of scents, aromas, odors, and stenches… for your smelling pleasure.

I’ll keep you all updated. Smell you later!

Do you have a memorable childhood smell? Tell me about it in an email, or in the comment section below.

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The Hullabaloo

So, I must say that I’ve been having a lot of fun with my new podcast, The Daly Express. I’ve been interviewing a number of smart, interesting people, and if you haven’t checked it out yet, what the heck have you been waiting for?

In recent weeks, I’ve talked to Kimberly Ross of the Washington Examiner, A.B. Stoddard of The Bulwark, Matt Lewis of The Hill, and author and economist Patrick Chovanec.

You can watch the video version on BernardGoldberg.com, or listen to the audio podcasts on Spotify or Apple Podcasts.

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Random Thought

I have a funny family.

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Obligatory Dog Shot

We have a pit bull down. I repeat, a pit bull is down.

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Catch Up on the Sean Coleman Thrillers

All of my Sean Coleman Thriller novels can be purchased through Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Books-A-Million, and wherever else books are sold.

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That’s all for now. Thanks for reading today’s Daly Grind.

Want to drop me a line? You can email me at johndalybooks@hotmail.com, and also follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and now Threads! If you haven’t subscribed to this newsletter yet, please click on the “Subscribe now” button below. Doing so will get these posts emailed directly to you.

Also, if you’re not caught up on my Sean Coleman Thrillers, you can pick the entire series up at a great price on Amazon. And if you’re interested in signed, personalized copies of my books, you can order them directly from my website.

Take care. And I’ll talk to you soon!