Personal Patchouli Story by Charna Ethier, Providence Perfume Company, Summer of patchouli LOVE 2011….15 Natural and Organic Patchouli Perfumes, 13 Fragrance Writers, 10 Patch Test Bunnies….

Burlington Vermont 1993

“See that guy—no, over there–playing hacky sack?” Jen asked the question, but didn’t wait for my reply. “His name is Charles or something, but everyone calls him Rasta-C. He has the most adorable dog named Marley, you know after Bob Marley?”

I turned to look at an emaciated dog panting on the grass of the university quad. His equally emaciated owner “Rasta-C” was shirtless and pale. I counted his ribs as he played hacky sack with a few other boys in the cool Vermont sunshine. I was 18 years old and it was my second week at college. I was attending “Groovy-U-V” or the University of Vermont as our parents preferred to say.

(photo above Bob Marley)

Jen had befriended me the day before, and noting the look of confusion in my eyes set about educating me on what she had quickly discovered regarding the social strata of our co-ed dormitory. She seemed to know who was cool, what to wear and what to say, whereas I was lost. Within 24 hours she had already sussed out who had the best pot, who had the biggest trust fund (to buy aforementioned pot, Grateful Dead tickets, take out Thai food and endless Patagonia garb) where to be seen and who to be seen with.

“And look behind us . . . God, could you be a little less obvious?” Jen hissed. “That’s Hilary Bower. Her great great grandfather invented refrigerator cars for trains or something, like a million years ago. She’s loaded. Her roommate told me she orders tons of clothes from the J. Crew catalog and if she doesn’t like them when they arrive she just throws them in the trash. She doesn’t even return them!” My mouth dropped. Growing up with a single mother I’d worn endless hand me downs. I couldn’t fathom new clothing being thrown away. I made a quick mental note to casually linger outside Hilary’s room on trash days.

“Close your mouth before a bug flies in there.” Jen chastised me. “Hey, do you have to go to your stupid work study job today?” I jumped up looking at the clock tower for the time.

“Yes. Actually I better get going. I want to go back to my room and get a sweater before I walk to work,” I said dusting grass off the back of my jeans.

“If you don’t like working in the Financial Aid Office, why don’t you just tell your parents? Then you won’t have to go anymore.” Jen asked.

I sighed. I had tried explaining to Jen previously why I had a work study job, and how it paid for part of my tuition, but she just didn’t understand. As I started walking back to our dorm, Jen jumped up quickly and ran after me. I got the distinct feeling Jen didn’t like to be alone. As we walked quickly across the grass Jen droned on about various students we passed. “That guy over there is so hot! You know he jams with Phish at Nectar’s downtown? He hangs with them and they all drink beer and eat gravy fries . . . “ I tuned her out thinking about the homework I hadn’t started yet.

Reaching the dorm, I swung the heavy door open and was hit with a blast of marijuana and patchouli. Always pot and patchouli. This time it was laced with the scent of fabric softener. To hide the scent of pot from the Resident Advisors (known as narcs) students would create “wands.” The wands were made from empty paper towel tubes. The cardboard tube would be filled with fabric softener dryer sheets; one flat sheet would be placed over the end of the tube secured by a rubber band. Exhaling marijuana smoke through this handy wand would result in the pleasant scent of fresh laundry and hopefully keep the smoker from getting busted.

I grabbed my sweater, swung my backpack over my shoulder and headed for the door. “Wait!” Jen said nervously, eyes scanning the hallway for someone to talk to in my absence. “Do you want to wear some of my patchouli oil? Rainbow, you know the girl down the hall with the blond dreadlocks? She told me the best place to get it is downtown at this little shop on Church Street. You want some?” she said rummaging in her bag.

“No thanks Jen. I don’t think it will help.” As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder. Jen was looking at me quizzically. She quickly turned and I heard her voice float down the hallway. “Rainbow! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Wanna order some Thai food?” I walk outside into the cold sunshine, leaves crunching underfoot. I feel alone and relieved.

* * * * * * * *

Close to 20 years later the smell of patchouli will send me hurtling back to college. To dorms and drugs. To concerts and characters of my youth. Occasionally the scent memory is so strong I’ll feel a vague sense of insecurity. I’ll feel distinctly uneasy and have no idea why, until I realize I’ve smelled patchouli and am reminded of being 18 years old and having no idea who I am. I have no idea who I am, but ready to entangle myself in the web of the world with youthful exuberance. I have to remind myself that I am a 36 year old woman who makes her own destiny. I make my own destiny and entangle myself in the web of the world with youthful exuberance and, occasionally, the scent of patchouli lingering about. A note to stay a little younger, a lot less assuming, and ready to discover.

Monica: Charna Ethier is one of 15 Perfumers in Perfume Pharmer’s Summer of Patchouli LOVE 2011 Natural Patchouli Perfume Challenge, to be celebrated by 13 fragrance writers, 10 Celebrity “sniffers” and many more patchouli groupies and fans…

images:

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