CAROLINE'S CORNER: SMELLS OPEN DIARY OF MEMORIES

"Memory ... is the diary that we all carry about with us," playwright Oscar Wilde said.

Certain odors cause my diary of memories to open, and my nose, my consciousness and I travel back in time.

Syrup Pepsin: the most unpleasant smell in my memory bank is Dr. Caldwell's Syrup Pepsin, which was the medicine of choice of my parents for their only child. My parents thought Syrup Pepsin would cure anything from an aching stomach to an aching toe. I have often accused them of using this medicine as a psychological tool because the threat of this vile-tasting medicine would make any child quickly arise from his deathbed. Just for old time's sake, I keep a bottle of the miracle cure stored in my basement. The one drop in the bottle smells as strongly as it did 40 years ago. When I feel disease coming on, I smell the pepsin and immediately I am cured.

Country-fried steak: this smell does not bring back pleasant memories. When I was pregnant with my firstborn, I was afflicted with morning sickness all day long. The day that Boulware cooked country-fried steak and the odor wafted to my queasy stomach and sensitive nose, I swore I would never eat anything country, fried, or steak again.

Cabbage: the smell of this vegetable when it is being cut brings back memories of Aunt DeeDee making kraut in a big crock. Visiting Aunt Dee Dee was always a treat, but I preferred to visit when she was making chocolate cake.

New car smell: New cars conjure up images of Uncle Raymond. Whether he needs it or not, Uncle Raymond buys a new car every year or every 6,000 miles.Cookies baking: No one has been able to duplicate Aunt Wannie's tea cakes. She took a pinch of this and a handful of that. Evidently my pinches and hands aren't the same size as hers since my tea cakes lack that certain something that hers had.

Tobacco barns: Boulware's cousin Marsha said tobacco smells remind her of childhood and visiting South Georgia tobacco barns with Granddaddy, who had four granddaughters and one grandson. This grandson was called Sonny then, and when he grew up, I married him, started writing and changed his name to Boulware. The granddaughters thought Granddaddy showed favoritism to Sonny and invited him on more tobacco barn trips than he did the girls.

"We thought about putting Sonny in a tow sack and throwing him in the lake in Lakeland," Marsha said. "When we got home, the parents would have asked, 'Where is Sonny?'"

"We don't know," we would whine. "We can't find him."

If Marsha had thrown Sonny in the lake, my life would have taken a different direction, and I would not be in Missouri today writing about nose memories.