Youth Dew bath powder. That was her scent. It was her trademark.
Before she died we used to tease her about her fragrance powder because all little old ladies wear Youth Dew. She was one such little old lady.
You always knew when her shower had finished because the entire downstairs would smell like that unforgettable Estée Lauder classic. Eau du Granny.
And now that smell is gone forever.
When she died, she took the whole era with her. That’s how it works. When an elderly person passes, we lose a period in history.
We didn’t just lose an old woman. We lost all the American women who dusted themselves with smell-good powder. We lost women old enough to actually remember wearing white gloves to go to the IGA.
We lost all those motherly reminders to sit up straight, not to hunch, and to chew your food exactly thirty-two times before swallowing.
We lost a generation of homemakers who brought deviled eggs to Little League practice, made pretzel salad for Boy Scout meetings, watched Perry Mason
on Saturday nights, and kept an ashtrays on the nightstands beside their Bibles.
She was the best of her kind. She was a period in culture. And her bath powder shall be smelled no more.
After all, young women aren’t going to start wearing bath powder. No way. Most young people have never even heard of such antique finery. Not to mention, big perfume companies rarely include fragrance powder products in their lineups anymore. It’s just not hip.
Neither are pearls. She always wore pearls. Women like her wore strings of cultured pearls for attending PTA meetings, or for mopping the kitchen floors. It’s just what they did. So goodbye pearls.
And goodbye, Nat Cole records. Goodbye, era of songs with lyrics written by lyricists who had a basic grasp of the English language. Goodbye, music that wasn’t expressly about sex.
Goodbye, Frank and…