Chris Preston and New Aquarius Online

Since we’ve recently had a summer preview in the New York area (days of over 90 degree heat), spring has gotten itself a jump start. It usually takes one or two seemingly anomalous days to get everything to bloom handsomely. Within a week, those blooms are gone, only to be replaced by the impenetrable haze of summer. I know that’s how it always goes, but that isn’t how I think of it as I’m freezing my ass off on some New York street in February. In my recollections at those times, spring endures, if it would only come early…

As I sat under the cool breeze of an open window last week, the sweetness of the air enabled me to revisit two memories, both of which are based upon smells, of all things. I remember vividly how these two smells mixed with the spring air, making a permanent impression. As I considered them, it occurred to me that I think of these every year.

The first was the smell of my new acoustic guitar. I finally scraped some bread together in the late 90s for a quality acoustic guitar. I played every conceivable model and brand looking for something that would provide the right roundness of tone, but also the ability to cut and project. I had been playing the same lousy acoustic with a laminated top since I was 15 or 16. I’d grown immeasurably as a guitarist, but my instrument lagged far behind.

I settled on the Martin that I still play now. It was a special model that they only made for  a short time. It was part of their Certified Wood line. It has cherry back and sides, which is quite unusual, but did not tax the world’s dwindling supply of rosewood. Though the top is solid spruce, it was made from pulp wood, which is the part of harvested trees that usually just gets thrown away when they buzz the logs into square pillars.

Every time I opened the case of my new guitar that spring, the smells of the finish and wood along with the fragrant air filled me with immense joy. The potentials embodied in that new guitar made me giddy. Owning one’s first Martin is an event in and of itself (ask any guitarist you know…), and that instrument was sure to deliver me to new levels as a guitarist and a songwriter. Those grand potentials actually had a smell.

The second odor was that of the interior of my 1969 Chevelle, which I purchased fully restored around that same time as the guitar. (Man, I sure was rolling in it in those days.) I needed a new ride and I wasn’t interested in a new car, but I did find a dealership in Lakewood, New Jersey that dealt only in classics. Golden Classics was like a regular car dealership with a showroom, but they had only classic cars. Most of them were completely restored. (Sadly, it’s not there anymore.)

The “new car smell” is one that many people are familiar with, but the Chevelle odor was different from that one. It was the new vinyl of the seats and possibly the new carpet combined with the heat of the day, again combined with the spring air coming in the windows.

Climbing into that car was like stepping into a period in history that I never got to be a part of but longed for with great passion. I drove it every day and I attracted a lot of attention with it. It was great connecting with other people who had a passion for classic cars, but there was a dark side too. There was always some older guy telling me that he used to have one just like it, even when I didn’t have the time or the inclination to listen.

I thought about guys like Bruce Springsteen who are accosted by people at all times, even when he’s arguing with his girlfriend or trying to finish his dinner because he has somewhere to go. That’s what it was like for me with that car. Bruce had to be cool for PR purposes. For me, it was just inconvenient. After a while, it gets really tiresome trying to be polite when even people waiting to make turns in the middle of intersections shout out the window to you. “Nice car!” (Do you have to say thank you every time?) “How much for that car?” I always loved that one. Get right to the point, right pal? (I know they weren’t interested in buying at all, only crashing it seemed.)

I sold the Chevelle in preparation for a move to New York City that never happened, but I’ll always love classic cars and I’ll always be grateful that I got to drive one.

The point of all of this talk about smells?

I think of my acoustic and my Chevelle as positive memories, yet much of what followed in my life after both purchases was exceedingly negative. I had major life changes, a divorce and a hiatus from music because of debilitating panic attacks, just to name a few.

Why then, do I remember these things so fondly? Perhaps because they were like spring. A snapshot, an instant, something that surprises us with its beauty but then is gone. These things drive me and see me through harder times, even though I deliberately choose to romanticize them. They are an unshakable reminder not to miss anything.

~

One more memory bears mentioning here, which is why I’ve come back to edit this one. I kissed my wife for the first time on a very warm day. We were sitting together in the sun, which is not something that I do regularly. Though I’ve kissed her thousands of times since, her kiss is even more powerful when we’re in the sun on a hot day. I realized that during the 90 degree summer preview I mentioned earlier. My senses were just electrified, and I was transported back by years. I think the more senses that are involved, the more vivid the memory. This has to be one of my favorites.