The Smell of Lilacs

<p><em>The Smell of Lilacs: A Memoir</em> by<span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)> Michal Ramsey Smith provides a delightful and nostalgic peek into three years of her life as a girl growing up in a lively and loving family in Saginaw Michigan.</span></p><p><br></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>The wonderful scent wafting from the lilac bush near the big front porch of her family's home sets the tone for her lyrical storytelling that focuses on the joys of cooking with her mother watching her father regale customers in his barber shop and experiencing memorable moments with family members and friends.</span></p><p><br></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>If you love family food and fun memories then you will love this book. Michal's poetic storytelling sweeps you back to a simpler time when life through a girl's eyes seemed larger-than-life and every detail mattered. Here's an excerpt:</span></p><p><br></p><p>***</p><p><br></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>My mother in her kitchen was a choreographed dance beautifully timed. Never hurried or rushed she moved from stove to sink to refrigerator to table gathering ingredients stirring things together adding seasonings turning the fire on the stove to just the right temperature to make a gentle simmer or bubble and boil. She rarely measured anything and when giving me directions she talked in terms of pinches dabs and pours: Put some flour in the bag add a pinch of salt it needs a dab of butter.</span></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>And I understood what she meant because I saw her do it time and again. She didn't taste what she cooked but was guided by how each dish smelled and looked. I asked her once how she learned to cook.</span></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>     The same way you're learning was her answer. More than 60 years later I rarely if ever tasted what I cooked but rather used my senses of smell and sight. It seemed to work.</span></p><p><br></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>***</span></p><p><br></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>This beautiful tribute to the rich cultural experience of a Black family in the Midwest during the 1950s is a heartwarming chronicle of all that a family should be. Here's what Michal writes about her story:</span></p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify><span style=background-color: rgba(0 0 0 0); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>The smell of lilacs takes me home. Every single time. Home home. That place where my heart warms and my soul sings. Two lilac trees thrived at the place of my childhood. One bloomed adjacent to the big red front porch; the other leaned gracefully on the windows at the side of the house. In full bloom their pale purple flowers reached up and out gently  wafting in the breeze creating the smell that was home. It was always just there in the mix as they say. The mix of family the swirl of life. My life. I rarely cut the flowers as a child or adult. Once taken from their roots the blossoms fade and the smell disappears. Lesson learned. Hold tight to your roots. They are your strength. </span></p>