My father-in-law, Ken Burke, was an amazing man. I know, because anyone I’ve ever talked to about him says the same thing. Sadly, by the time I met him, he had been struggling with Alzheimer’s for many years, and passed away on August 14, 1994, just a year after I married his son. It is one of my biggest regrets that I never really had a chance to get to know him, or to spend hours talking with him.

I must rely, therefore, on the stories about him that other people are willing to share. Which is why I was thrilled when his daughter, my sister-in-law Julie Burke, decided after reading my recent Father’s Day post to write some of her memories of her dad and send them to me.  This week, she forwarded the first installment, and gave me permission to publish it here.

So . . . many thanks to Julie! In addition to filling in as a guest writer for my blog for the week and giving me a break, her willingness to write continues to fill out the portrait I have of the man who had an enormous influence on her and her siblings, including my husband, Doug.

Daddy’s Girl,

by Julie Burke

I love the word melancholy because that is how I have been feeling. Father’s Day has passed and I am left once again with memories of my father which are always with me, but stirring strongly in my head! The pictures in my mind of sitting on a blanket on the beaches in Carmel watching the waves, the barbershop quartet concerts we so enjoyed together, the baseball games at Thurman Field on Thursdays (his days off) and my get-out-of-school-free card. Along follows the talks on my rides to high school and Daddy asking me to run in for a cinnamon roll; he said it would get him through the morning. Hah Hah… Some weekends I would attempt to play in father/daughter tennis tournaments and I believe I gave it a better go than he did at swimming. All the kids will know I am referring  to the 4th of July swim race he lost for us, and which we never let him forget!

There are so many happy times with my father, and the last 10 years were spent just trying to be his friend and help him remember what he didn’t want to forget. I love my DADDY, and my life forever changed the day we lost him….

I’m grateful this week for Julie, for Ken, and for every dad whose presence continues to be felt.

I saw a blog post the other day and liked the title: “18 Things My Dad Was Right About.” I liked the post, too. The author, Marc, of the Marc and Angel Hack Life, recalls a school assignment when he interviewed his dad to find out what advice he’d give a younger person. Some of my favorites?  “Less advice is often the best advice,” “Not much is worth fighting about,” and “Sometimes you just have to go for it.” To read the entire post, click here.

I started to think about some of the best advice my father has ever given me, but I think he’s firmly in the “less advice is often the best advice” camp.  You often learned best from my dad by watching and listening. I remember spending hours sitting next to him in a dirt-floored barn that served as a garage, watching him strip down and rebuild a bicycle or car engine. I learned my way around a tool chest, how to tighten a drill bit or use a circular saw. At my father’s elbow, I also learned that most things could be repaired with a judicious application of baling wire and duct tape.

Yet some of the best things I learned from my dad came in the offhand comments that, if I paid attention, could teach me something worth knowing. The memory of one event has provided me with such an enduring lesson that I consider it one of my own personal parables, one of the stories I live by.  It happened when I was at home in Colorado on a summer break from college.  I decided on a whim that I would ride my bicycle from the suburb where we lived into downtown Denver, a journey of about 12 or 13 miles each way.  My dad, always up for an adventure, said he’d join me.

You must understand that, although I was a runner, I was not much of a cyclist, and the bicycles we had were ones my father had built himself from parts of other, older bicycles.  Still, I was eager for the ride. We started out one afternoon and hadn’t even ridden a mile when the chain on my bike broke. Fortunately, my dad is mechanically minded and had it fixed within ten minutes, using, I don’t know, a bottle cap and a twig to repair it. Off we went again. Within minutes the brake cable pulled loose on my bike. Once again, my father fixed the problem while I watched over his shoulder, a little more impatient with every minute that passed. We took off again, only to have something break on my bicycle within minutes.

By this time I was no longer patient and the outing was no longer fun. “Stupid bicycle,” I muttered as my father once again propped his bike against a tree and leaned over mine.  He fixed the problem–a gear issue or something–and we continued on our way.

And then–I kid you not–my bicycle broke down again. My dad patiently stopped and knelt to assess the problem. By this time, we’d been gone over an hour and had traveled about three miles. I was ready to throw my bike against a wall or under a car or something.

“This is insane,” I fumed. “We’re not getting anywhere!  We should just walk the bikes back to the house.”

And that’s when he dropped this little gem:

“How do you know that this isn’t the last problem you’ll have?”

I just stood there, stumped. He was right. I didn’t know if we’d have more problems. I wouldn’t find out unless I kept getting back on the bike.

He fixed the gear shift or the chain or the brake lever or whatever problem had most recently plagued my bike and we set off once again. We rode all the way into Denver and back home again without incident. The rest of the ride was perfect.

I mentioned this ride to my dad the other day, and he didn’t remember that we had had all of those problems, which is, of course, typical of him. What is really important, however,  is that I remember. I think back to that day often, when I’m on my last nerve because my computer isn’t working, or I’m running late and can’t find my keys. How do I know, I say to myself, that this isn’t the last problem I’ll have.

My dad’s advice, given in the form of a question, has moved me through many sticky spots, and I appreciate it, even if he doesn’t remember giving it to me.

In honor of Father’s Day, think back to the times when you learned that your father–or father figure–was right. What were the lessons he showed you? If you think of one or two, maybe you could share them with him.

Coffee.

Vicks VapoRub.

Juicy Fruit gum.

Bleach.

What happens when you read these words?  If you are like most people, these words trigger strong scent memories. They come from a website I saw recently that purported to list the 20 scents that are most memorable to Americans, citing a Yale University study on scent recognition.  Although I searched in vain to find the actual study from Yale, I decided that the list was interesting even if I couldn’t verify its source.  Here’s the complete list:

1. Coffee
2. Peanut butter
3. Vicks VapoRub
4. Chocolate
5. Wintergreen oil
6. Baby powder
7. Cigarette butts
8. Mothballs
9. Dry cat food
10. Beer
11. Ivory bar soap
12. Juicy Fruit gum
13. Orange
14. Cinnamon
15. Lemon
16. Tuna
17. Banana
18. Crayons
19. Cheese
20. Bleach

I would agree that most of the items on this list have very vivid smells, and I’m not surprised that coffee came in at number one.  At least it’s number one in my world.  There are a few omissions that surprised me, like gasoline or wood smoke.  But still, if you are like me, reading the list sent you ricocheting from one scent memory to another.  The reason, of course, is that smells are particularly good at evoking memory.  Scientists have known this for years.

So have writers. Marcel Proust, the French author, wrote about involuntary memory in his novel In Search of Lost Time.  There is a famous passage in which the narrator is served tea and petites madeleines, the little rich cakes served in France, which unleashes a vivid, emotional memory.  Proust’s work is so linked to the study of involuntary memory triggered by smell that we now talk about  the “Proust effect.”  There is solid science behind the idea.  What’s more, odors are particularly good in helping people recall the emotional details of a memory.  John Medina, a molecular biologist who wrote one of my favorite books, Brain Rules, explains:

Right between the eyes lies a patch of neurons about the size of a large postage stamp.  This patch is called the olfactory region [which is responsible for processing the sensory information of smell].  Every other sensory system, at this point, must send a signal to the thalamus and ask permission to connect to the rest of the brain–including the higher levels where perception occurs.  Not the nerves carrying information about smell.  LIke an important head of state in a motorcade, smell signals bypass the thalamus and go right to their brainy destinations, no meddling middle-man required.  One of those destinations is the amygdala, [which] supervises not only the formation of emotional experiences but also the memory of emotional experiences.  Because smell directly stimulates the amygdala, smell directly stimulates emotions.” (p. 212-213)

Although it helps to have science back up the idea, I would wager that most of us recognize the effect intuitively.  Certain smells can catch us by surprise and transport us with incredibly vivid recall back to a particular time or place.  I remember once when I first turned on the gas stove that came with the first house I ever bought.  I had never owned or used a gas stove before and was a little afraid that the whole thing would blow up in my face.  When I turned the knob and the little blue flames curled their way around the burner, however, the smell of the gas flooded me with a memory of being in my grandmother’s house when I was about three years old.  The house had been torn down when I was young, and five minutes before I touched that knob I would have told you that I had no memory of ever having been inside.  But the memory that came back was exquisitely clear. It was early morning and my grandmother was making breakfast.  The wood floors were cold beneath my bare feet and my thin nightgown just brushed my knees.  I remembered looking up at the comfortable, ample shape of my grandmother at the stove.  I remembered her cotton apron, and the thick, black skillet.  And I also remembered how safe I felt seeing her there, being with her in the dark of the early morning.  All this from one smell.

I’m sure you have vivid scent memories as well.  They can either catch you by surprise, or you can visit them at will.  Our sense of smell can have two very important effects on our writing.  Because smells can provide an emotional overlay to our memories, they can provide a rich, immediate doorway to important events or people or situations from our own personal histories.  I associate many smells with my favorite moments from my childhood–lilacs, freshly mown grass, ponderosa pine trees, fried chicken in a bucket from KFC.  Just thinking about these smells can trigger stories that help me value and appreciate an important part of my life.

In addition, if we include specific smells when we write stories about our lives, other people find it easier to connect to our experiences.  Paradoxically, the most specific smells are often the most universal.  Other people know exactly what it’s like to smell coffee brewing, or to open a box of Crayola crayons, or to walk into a house filled with cigarette smoke.

Look through the list again.  I’ll bet something on it will trigger at least one small memory.  Take a moment.  Write it down.