I was at the store a couple of weeks ago when I saw something that struck my impulse to buy. It was one of those little wooden house thingies you use to burn incense. The signage talked about how you could have the scent of fresh balsam pine wafting gently through the house, bringing back warm memories of Christmas past. It promised to bring the scent of a real Christmas tree to the world of fake ones, the scent that you remember from your childhood.
Now, understand that growing up we never had a real tree. I shouldn't say never. I think we may have had one for a couple of years after I was born, because I've seen it in those old black and white pictures that are now stored in some unknown location in my house. But my Dad, who didn't like the hassle of picking out a tree or disposing us, bought a fake tree just as soon as they were mass-produced enough to come down to a dirt cheap price. It wasn't aluminum, thank God, but it was pretty much some metal sticks with some flat plastic strands sticking out of them.
So in truth, the scent of Christmas I really remember is more a combination of non-descript plastic and attic. But I couldn't help feeling nostalgic for the smell of pine in the home, so a couple of days later I bought the little house (which comes with 10 sticks of balsam pine incense) and brought it home, anxious to get my old-fashioned Christmas started.
I quickly opened the package, read the directions and started to fire up the first "log." That's an adventure in and of itself. They tell you to hold the little log sideways, light it so there is a sustained flame, then turn it so you can put it in the little holder inside the house in a vertical direction. Well, that may works for the ladies with skinny fingers who designed it. But with my fat fingers I nearly A) dropped it, which would set the little house on fire (do you then have to call for a little fire department? and B) suffered second degree burns as it tried to squeeze my fat fingers into the house to install the incense. All that was missing was me reciting the entire Greek alphabet backwards and I could've been a member of Sigma Phi Epsilon.
But I finally did get it in place and put the little roof back on the little house. I watched as the smoke came out of the little chimney, then waited to be overtaken by the sweet scent of the Christmas I Never Had.
A few minutes later, my wife came down the stairs, asking "Is something burning?" Yes, I explained, it's the sweet scent of Christmas past. She said, "It doesn't smell like Christmas. It smells like something is on fire." Then she went back upstairs to continue doing whatever it was she was doing.
Next was my eldest daughter. "Is something burning?" she queried. Yes, I explained again, now more annoyed. It's the sweet scent of Christmas. "It smells awful" she replied. "It's really sickening."
Undaunted, I stepped back and filled my nostrils with the sweet scent of Christmas. It was then that I realized my wife and eldest child were correct. It didn't smell like Christmas. It smelled more like someone had been cutting pine boards and let the saw run too long. Or like someone had dropped the little incense log into the recycling bin, igniting the newspapers in there and thus setting the entire house ablaze. Only with a faintly sweet tinge to it. And that gawdawful smell was now permeating our whole house.
We still have the little house sitting on the counter. I've tried it twice more with the same results -- family members come running into the kitchen looking for the fire extinguisher in the belief that all those Christmas lights we put up around the house have finally fulfilled their potential as a fire hazard. All I can say is thank goodness I didn't let the saleslady at the store talk me into purchasing another 50-pack of incense logs.
I wonder what the little house would smell like when it's burning?
Now, understand that growing up we never had a real tree. I shouldn't say never. I think we may have had one for a couple of years after I was born, because I've seen it in those old black and white pictures that are now stored in some unknown location in my house. But my Dad, who didn't like the hassle of picking out a tree or disposing us, bought a fake tree just as soon as they were mass-produced enough to come down to a dirt cheap price. It wasn't aluminum, thank God, but it was pretty much some metal sticks with some flat plastic strands sticking out of them.
So in truth, the scent of Christmas I really remember is more a combination of non-descript plastic and attic. But I couldn't help feeling nostalgic for the smell of pine in the home, so a couple of days later I bought the little house (which comes with 10 sticks of balsam pine incense) and brought it home, anxious to get my old-fashioned Christmas started.
I quickly opened the package, read the directions and started to fire up the first "log." That's an adventure in and of itself. They tell you to hold the little log sideways, light it so there is a sustained flame, then turn it so you can put it in the little holder inside the house in a vertical direction. Well, that may works for the ladies with skinny fingers who designed it. But with my fat fingers I nearly A) dropped it, which would set the little house on fire (do you then have to call for a little fire department? and B) suffered second degree burns as it tried to squeeze my fat fingers into the house to install the incense. All that was missing was me reciting the entire Greek alphabet backwards and I could've been a member of Sigma Phi Epsilon.
But I finally did get it in place and put the little roof back on the little house. I watched as the smoke came out of the little chimney, then waited to be overtaken by the sweet scent of the Christmas I Never Had.
A few minutes later, my wife came down the stairs, asking "Is something burning?" Yes, I explained, it's the sweet scent of Christmas past. She said, "It doesn't smell like Christmas. It smells like something is on fire." Then she went back upstairs to continue doing whatever it was she was doing.
Next was my eldest daughter. "Is something burning?" she queried. Yes, I explained again, now more annoyed. It's the sweet scent of Christmas. "It smells awful" she replied. "It's really sickening."
Undaunted, I stepped back and filled my nostrils with the sweet scent of Christmas. It was then that I realized my wife and eldest child were correct. It didn't smell like Christmas. It smelled more like someone had been cutting pine boards and let the saw run too long. Or like someone had dropped the little incense log into the recycling bin, igniting the newspapers in there and thus setting the entire house ablaze. Only with a faintly sweet tinge to it. And that gawdawful smell was now permeating our whole house.
We still have the little house sitting on the counter. I've tried it twice more with the same results -- family members come running into the kitchen looking for the fire extinguisher in the belief that all those Christmas lights we put up around the house have finally fulfilled their potential as a fire hazard. All I can say is thank goodness I didn't let the saleslady at the store talk me into purchasing another 50-pack of incense logs.
I wonder what the little house would smell like when it's burning?
