The Cedar Cradle
My father was a builder when I was a kid. He kept a workshop in the yard behind our house.
I used to love being in there. The smell of sawdust in the air, even now, so many years later, is something that immediately recalls my childhood when I smell it.
My father was a quiet man, much more show than tell, and I adored him when I was young, like most young girls do.
My mother was his opposite in that, abrasive and intolerant. So I spent as much time as I could at his side.
Christmas and birthdays were always huge affairs in our house. No matter what other shortcomings they may have had as parents, they definitely made us feel loved and wanted during those times.
I have two older sisters, the oldest is six years older than me and our middle sister is two years older than me.
When Christmas Eve finally rolled around each year, my sisters and I would each pick a couch in our living room and tape a piece of paper to it with our names written on it. That way, Santa knew whose presents went where.
The best Christmas I ever had was when I came down to discover a huge assortment of books I had never read, an aquarium with a fish already in it, a hand-sewn doll made to look like a cabbage patch doll, and a beautiful, cedar cradle for her to sleep in.
Later, I found out that my dad had paid this lady to make the dolls, each one resembling the girl it was made for. The Cedar cradles were something he had built himself, somehow keeping it a secret, which must have been no small feat considering he had three nosey girls who tried to be his shadow as much as possible.
My oldest sister’s doll had brown hair and green eyes, like her. The middle sister’s doll had blue eyes and blonde hair, just like she did. My doll, however, was a newborn and bald on top, made for the youngest child.
I can still smell that cedar cradle to this day. Any time I get the whiff of freshly cut cedar it always makes me feel like I’m that kid again.
My father passed away in 2011 at the age of 64. I helped my mom go over to clean out his house, and in his attic, lovingly covered to protect its finish were our cradles. I later discovered my dad had secretly squirreled the dolls away as well.
Sawdust and fresh cedar are two of my most powerful memories associated with scent. Anytime I smell them I feel like my dad’s right beside me, still making sure he can catch me should I stumble or fall.
