I’m starting a new category of posts today, in which I try to explain the origins of some of my more acute examples of nerdery, which, believe me, makes for an extensive list. But that’s fine. In fact, I even see it as a personal strength. In recent years, largely due to the power of social media, terms like “nerd” and “geek” and any derivations of them have been reclaimed by the same people who have had society tag them as such, and then redefined to mean a strong and focused devotion for a particular interest. I see nothing wrong with these things. I think anyone who can claim an enjoyment or interest in something that enhances their happiness, and isn’t hurting anybody along the way, is probably doing better than the people who would look to make fun of them for any over-enthusiasm they might occasionally display. Star Wars geek. Music nerd. Potter Nerd. And so on. But I’m not starting this by writing about any of those. Today it’s all about candles.
We didn’t typically have a lot of candles in our house growing up, but they were still around, usually on top of birthday cakes and all over the place at church. We had a collection that came out with the Christmas decorations, and because they were around every year makes me think how most of them probably didn’t get used much. Some did — I clearly remember some weird, porous thing of a candle that my dad brought home from the drugstore once. It looked like something plucked from an alien landscape, which melted through its own sides and dripped down to decorate the bottle supporting it. I remember spending at least an hour of one childhood evening hypnotized by this, watching it melt and trying to anticipate its narrative.
I came to resent candles a little once I began teaching, since they were such a staple of lazy parent obligation as a Christmas present for the teacher (to say nothing of me being a guy teacher, which was an added level of challenge for many people). Some gift candles were very nice, but I didn't have much use for them outside of the three weeks of the year I had Christmas decorations out. Plus most were pine-scented (Christmas trees?) to a level reminiscent of insect repellent, or they looked like they were made out of stale candy and formed into the shape of something like an awkwardly-balanced reindeer that I had no desire to display in my home.
A good number of years into teaching saw me living in a mediocre townhouse, and sharing a wall with a guy who regularly practiced his bass guitar at 11:00 PM. When I had my fill of this and decided it was time to move, I was introduced to the world of real estate staging. I had my house painted, my carpeting replaced, my kitchen floor redone and one bathroom remodeled to convince people my cave-like interior unit was worth buying. My cousin, who could be described as an amateur, but remarkably insightful, interior designer, told me I should start baking so my house would smell delicious and welcoming when people came to look at it. I told her that simply wasn’t going to happen. We compromised and found some cheap candles at the grocery store that were supposed to, and kind of did, smell like chocolate chip cookies when lit.
The idea of candles that could smell better than bug spray on pine trees seemed like a great shortcut of a way to make a house feel more domestic. This revelation led to a few exploratory sojourns down the candle aisle at Target, where I figured they had to have a better selection than the grocery store. Not only was the variety much greater, but they even had a few shelves of Yankee Candles there. I found one made of three layers of complementary warm colors of wax, each labeled with a different autumnal bucolic name, appropriate for the season. I removed the lid and smelled it and was thrown back on my heels, both by how perfectly the name matched the scent (of at least the top layer) and how strong it was. I decided to give that one a shot, and never really turned back.
Years later now, I’m still a loyal Yankee Candle customer (and Twitter follower) and have sunk more money into making my house smell nice than I will ever admit out loud to anyone. I get coupons in both my email and actual mail box, and frequently wind up using them. There’s a Yankee Candle retail location less than a mile from my home, and it wouldn’t surprise me to find out some of the employees recognize me when I walk in. I could tell you just by the name of the candle which season would be the best for it. I own a wick trimmer, because they make all the difference. Giving Yankee Candles as gifts has become habit. I can tell you which locations in my house are the best places to set lit candles so the scent will carry into other rooms. If I have people over, I’ll light a small jar candle for the bathroom, and I’ll make sure the scent is subtle enough to not overpower. There have been days I’ve put my jacket on at the end of the school day and discovered the scent of the candle I’d burned the night before had permeated it so I was still carrying it with me. And all of this is to say nothing of how the only person I can think of with a Yankee Candle devotion deeper than mine would be my agent Carrie, which I feel is yet another example of how well we are paired.
I’m very happy with the house I have now, particularly the way I don’t have to share any common walls with aspiring bass guitar players. I’ll admit that I might not dust every week, and that the outside of most of my windows really should’ve had a good cleaning last summer, and I’ve been known on occasion to fall victim to the “refrigerator full of condiments and nothing else” syndrome, so I’m never going to stand as anybody’s perfect idea of domestic aesthetic bliss.
But, I promise if you ever walk through my front door and are welcomed into my home, it’s going to smell really good in here.
As it does right now.
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