I must have been about 5/6 years old at the time my grandparents used to take me visit their cousins in the country side. The place, set in the plain of the italian region of Emilia-Romagna, was charming and, to the eyes of a little girl, the visit to the rabbits' house, the chickens coop and even the pigs stall, seemed quite exciting.
But, funny enough, what I remember the most is how much I loved to spend time playing in the wood-shop, which became my favorite place in the whole farm. There I would hunt for small blocks among the dusty piles of wood scraps and play with the uneven squares of wood with the same delight a collection of colorful Lego would provide. I played with the curly wood chips pretending that they could magically turn into the most delicious meal for my favorite doll, just by stirring them with my improvised wooden “spatula”. That place, filled with the rich aroma of the fragrant freshly cut wood --so natural, earthy and delicious-- was a magical one for me.
Now, a few decades later, I find myself 'married to the trade', accustomed to sweeping those wood chips off the entry's floor after my husband walks in, with a little less excitement than in my younger age's playing, occasionally looking astonished at the dust that covers his hair at the end of a work day wondering how much of it will land on my furniture before he gets it off under the shower. I have enjoyed taking my girls to visit him at his shop since they were little, hoping they would find it as magical as I did, although my maternal apprehension never let me relax at the presence of so many hazards in the workplace...funny how those dangers don't have ANY part in my memories at all!
I have to confess though, that at times I find myself holding my face a little closer to his shoulder when he comes home from work, just to capture a bit of that familiar fragrance and enjoy a little 'whiff' down on Memory Lane...
But, funny enough, what I remember the most is how much I loved to spend time playing in the wood-shop, which became my favorite place in the whole farm. There I would hunt for small blocks among the dusty piles of wood scraps and play with the uneven squares of wood with the same delight a collection of colorful Lego would provide. I played with the curly wood chips pretending that they could magically turn into the most delicious meal for my favorite doll, just by stirring them with my improvised wooden “spatula”. That place, filled with the rich aroma of the fragrant freshly cut wood --so natural, earthy and delicious-- was a magical one for me.
Now, a few decades later, I find myself 'married to the trade', accustomed to sweeping those wood chips off the entry's floor after my husband walks in, with a little less excitement than in my younger age's playing, occasionally looking astonished at the dust that covers his hair at the end of a work day wondering how much of it will land on my furniture before he gets it off under the shower. I have enjoyed taking my girls to visit him at his shop since they were little, hoping they would find it as magical as I did, although my maternal apprehension never let me relax at the presence of so many hazards in the workplace...funny how those dangers don't have ANY part in my memories at all!
I have to confess though, that at times I find myself holding my face a little closer to his shoulder when he comes home from work, just to capture a bit of that familiar fragrance and enjoy a little 'whiff' down on Memory Lane...
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