Senses bring back summer memories

That we are fearfully and wonderfully made is an astonishing truth, the depths of which I never tire of learning. The intricate design of our makeup and function, as humans, is remarkable.

Lately, I have been especially impressed by the connection between our senses and our memories. And though both of these faculties are at work year round, summertime seems to be the season when they shine most.

A couple of weekends ago, for example, I was standing at the kitchen counter, preparing a salad for lunch. I cut into a green pepper, took a slice, and salted it. As soon as it hit my tongue, I was 10 years old again.

It was the early 2000s, a humid summer day, and I was standing in my grandparents’ garden in Vassar. My grandfather handed me a pepper, smiling. “Go ahead, try one,” he urged. “They’re good!”

I looked dubiously at him, then back again at the green thing sitting in my hand. I took a bite and was pleasantly surprised by the pungent, “gardeny” flavor. Green peppers went from a vegetable to be avoided to one worth searching out.

That whole, brief event had lain dormant in my mind for decades. But, in an instant, it was vividly resurrected by a single taste.

A few days before, I unlocked my car and got inside. The hot July sun had thoroughly baked the small sedan, and I quickly reached for my key to get the air conditioning going. But for a moment, the smell and overall feel of that hot car reminded me, of all things, of long summer days at Helen Stevens Memorial Pool.

I remember begging my mom to keep the air conditioner off while she drove my cousin and I into town. We wanted to be as hot as we could be, so that the pool would feel that much colder to us when we jumped in. And then there was the good feeling of the warm car after getting out of the cool water hours later.

Who knew the feeling of a sweltering car could bring back such fond memories?

Sounds, too, are effective at unearthing memories. Recently, while on our way to Cass City for a visit, I asked my daughter if she would like to see where her dad grew up. She was exuberant at the idea, as three-year-olds are about most everything, so I turned down Shabbona Road.

The sound of the crunch and pop of gravel beneath the tires brought scenes of childhood summers to my mind. How many times had I walked that same half-mile, kicking up dust, formulating plans for summer sleepovers and birthday present wish lists? Hundreds, probably.

As we parked in front of the old house, the sound of tranquil silence permeated the air. The stillness reminded me of those stifling afternoons when my mother allowed me to turn on the sprinkler beneath the oak tree. A puddle formed there, and with a running start, I would swing through it in my tire swing. I was a mess by the time it was time to come in for dinner, but what a way for a kid to cool off on a steamy summer day.

King David penned Psalm 139 in awe, as he marveled that the same God who spoke galaxies into existence also took the time to skillfully weave together the human body.

Some 3,000 years later, my own amazement at the connection between senses and memory causes me to join the great king in saying, “Marvelous are Your works!”