INHALE DEEPLY AT YOUR OWN RISK

by Mariane Holbrook

As a child, I always smelled them long before I saw them.
Lilacs. Purple and white lilacs with a scent more overpowering than 
almost any other flower. At least they were to me, an eight year old 
whose curiosity was exceeded only by my courage.

Who else in our neighborhood dared to pick a bouquet from a lilac bush 
belonging to our neighborhood grouch to give to a beloved third grade 
teacher? Miss Burdick’s lilacs were in full bloom two weeks before anyone 
else’s. My mistake was in picking them all from one spot in the front of 
the bush. Mama dutifully administered my usual spanking after an irate 
phone call from the ever-vigilant Miss Edwina Burdick.

But one day lilacs took on a different meaning for me. When we returned
home after a weekend at Grandma’s farm in the rolling hills of Pennsyl-
vania, our lilacs were in spectacular bloom.

When we opened the car door I could smell them from large bushes on 
the far side of our house.

I broke off several beautiful lilac sprays, inhaling deeply, and carried them 
inside to place the bouquet in an empty Bell canning jar full of water. 
I loved those lilacs like no other flower.

Suddenly a staccato knock on the front door sent four of the seven 
children in our burgeoning family scurrying to see who was there. 

It was my friend, Bertha, and she was crying. Hard.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Bertha sobbed. “Our baby twin boys died this 
morning while you were gone.”

Mama was already at the front door and put her arms around Bertha. 
She motioned me to come with her while she escorted
Bertha back home across the street.


Mama didn’t know Mrs. Babcock well since the family had only lived in 
their very modest rental house for about six months.
You could call them poor, I guess, but then again, none of us were 
exactly bursting our way through the seams of financial prosperity.

The only time I’d been inside Bertha’s house was the day she invited 
me to stay for supper. Her paper-thin mother looked at 
us with a mixture of confusion and anxiety.

“We don’t have very much but you’re welcome to stay,” Mrs. Babcock 
finally offered. “We’re having cold sliced potato and onion sandwiches.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I volunteered. “We usually don’t have much either. 
And I love potato and onion sandwiches.” Both statements were untrue. 
But I rationalized that, in this case at least, God would forgive me for 
rearranging the truth for compassionate purposes.

On this day, Mrs. Babcock met us on the front porch which had been 
enclosed and made into a sort of living room. She was wringing her 
hands and weeping.

Mama put her arm around Mrs. Babcock’s thin shoulders. “I’m so sorry 
about the loss of your babies. What can we do? We want to help.”

Mama and Mrs. Babcock began making a list: 

NEED:

Money for Luckner’s Funeral Home where the babies are
White burial clothing
Food and flowers from the neighborhood
Cash for the family since Mr. Babcock was still out of work
Call our pastor about conducting the funeral
Ask if our church could donate a cemetery plot
Call Jason at the newspaper to see if he would write a story

Promising to return in two hours, Mama hugged Mrs. Babcock and
raced home.

She sent my two older sisters and me to every home in the neighbor-
hood, asking the mothers to meet at our house in thirty minutes for 
an emergency meeting. (Mama wasn’t called “The Drama Queen” for 
nothing!)

Every mother on our street came. The funeral was set for two days 
hence in the funeral home chapel. Mrs. Babcock insisted that the 
babies be brought back home and placed in the living room for the 
public viewing. When I saw their tiny translucent bodies lying in the 
white, satin-lined casket, I cried.

No one in this post Great Depression year could afford Florists’ sprays. 
The only flowers in bloom in the neighborhood were lilacs so everyone 
brought a bouquet of lilac blossoms in canning jars. I counted thirty jars.

But the fragrance that I’d always loved became so overpowering in that 
small, warm room crammed with people, that I exited the house and 
ran home, retching and gagging! 

My headache lasted all day and I missed school. The next day, when I 
returned, Daddy sent a note to my teacher:

“Reason for Mariane’s absence: Simple sensory delight overload.”