A moment with Lily of the Valley by Andy Tauer

I think I was misunderstood here!

I did not say that the Fragrantice community did not participate or cooperate. The sentence I quoted was about the whole of the comminuty interested in fragrance, so all the other forums and sites, etc. And I thought, since there were so many good entries from here, it's a shame that overally, knowing how many other similar sites there are, there were not enough entries to make the project work.

So I was not accusing anyone of anything :)

Migotka I think this is misunderstanding. The Fragrantica community contributed in full.

Also rules of giveaway were to send it to Andy and optionally you could post it here. And finally we invited everybody to send contributions to Andy after the giveaway.

Andy did not tell me total number of submissions he got but he told me that he got something about 50% of submissions from Fragrantica members and all the other websites and communities contributed the rest. We gave our best and I guess many members did submit entries to Andy (that was the condition to enter giveaway) so I assume that Andy has most of the entries from this page. I think that editorial stuff here did good job and organized giveaway.

By 'you' I actually meant not the admins of the site, but people who posted their entries :)

I would have thought that people would be interested in sending their entries directly rather than just post on a forum, if they already went through the trouble of writing them...

I was just surprised to find out that, judging by an amount of fantastic entries here, and knowing he has been advertising on other forums where I assume a lot of good writers hang around, the project did not arise enough interest...

Unfortunately Andy did want reviews to be sent to him, he just wanted to announce and promote his project on fragrantica and other sources, and we did it, and chose only two reviews from all these wonderful posts.

I think, if he chose fragranticans to work with on the project, we would easily make it together ;o) Our community does collaborate, the thing is, that it's impossible to do such a project alone.

The reason I am coming back to this old news is ebcause I was just visiting Andy Tauer's blog, where he said how disappointed he was with lack of response to his idea of creating this book. He said:

'The community does not collaborate on such a project. I did not get enough contributions.'

I am surprised, since there was so many good entries here, did you guys send them to him? I have difficulties believeing he actually did not get the minimum 50 good entries, looking at all those fantastic entries here!

Fellow Fragranticans,

Long live lily of the valley and the wonderful perfumers who manage miraculously to capture its beauty! I am delighted to be the lucky recipient of one of Andy Tauer's fine creations! My lovely bottle of CARILLON POUR UNE ANGE arrived already this afternoon, and I am looking forward with great anticipation to wearing this gem!

Thank you Fragrantica, and Thank You Andy! (Stay tuned for a detailed review in the near future...)

Congratulations to the winners!

Congrats to the winners! Sooooo looking forward to see this lily of the valley review!

YAY!! Thank you so much, Andy, Fragrantica, and Luckyscent!!! I can't wait to try the perfume, and to see the finished e-book! I hope it brings in loads of money for the chosen charity! :)

Congrats to the winners! :)

Congrats to both of the winners. I really had my hopes on winning, but I just it just wasn't meant to be. I can't wait to read reviews.

Congratulations to the winners! I look forward to reading your reviews of the perfume. :)

Congratulations to Winners!
I enjoyed reading your reviews! I hope you will enjoy the scent!

Clean, white
Light, bright, lovely
Soft, sweet, innocent...

My full submission is in the form of a bit of artwork that I can't post in this comment, but I've sent it to Andy and wish him the best with the new fragrance, the e-book, and everything else he does!

I fell for Lily at Sunday school when I was 5,and along w/ flowers that I was allowed to pick from the church lawn - dandelion, Queen Anne`s Lace, and mini wild daisys - I was too tempted by the shape and scent of Lily, and gently pulled a stalk from the dark topsoil of the Presbitary garden to add to my bouquet. Even though I buried Lily in the center of my pickings,I was caught & harshly scolded by a teacher. I apologized, and re-planted the rooted stalk in the garden. But the love of Lily was permanent!! :-)

I`ve hoped for many entries so that this LOV book will raise big $$$$!!! :-) hotlanta linda

My Lily of the valley
by Naheed

Return of happiness, purity of heart, sweetness, tears of the Virgin Mary, you've made my life complete, humility, happiness, love's good fortune, that's how I know these small bell shaped nodding flowers.I've just seen lily of the valley in pictures and heard of it in the world of fragrances and in stories and poetry.I long to see it one day gently holding on my palms and touching it delicately with the tip of my fingers. My love affair with flowers and natural fragrances is just unexplainable and how beautiful that moment would be when it will come in my real world from the world of imagination and I will have a close encounter with this beautiful flower. It would be exactly like return of happiness with a lot of sweetness which will make my life complete.
That's how I feel about my Lily of the Valley.

Lily of the Valley

by sherapop

I don’t recall ever having had a direct physical encounter with the perfect little hanging cups of lily of the valley as they exist in nature.

I grew up in Colorado, where wildflowers abound, but my childhood floral memories are of less rounded, upward-turned, scraggly little flowers whipped by the wind. They were often colored shades of lavender or lilac, sometimes golden yellow like the sun, or orangish red like lady bugs. These wildflowers were sprinkled all about the grassy green plains at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains where I lived.

My understanding of lily of the valley derives solely from perfume. My concept of this flower has been formed through direct encounters with fine fragrances in which LOV plays a starring role: Dior DIORISSIMO, Ralph Lauren BLUE, Bond no 9 CENTRAL PARK, Penhaligon LILY OF THE VALLEY, and others as well. I feel confident that I know the smell of the beautiful hanging cups of lily of the valley which I have perhaps only seen in images accompanying some of the perfumes in which they figure prominently. I congratulate myself each time that I recognize LOV in a new perfume before having looked at the listed notes.

Would my love of lily of the valley be deeper had I derived my understanding of its beauty through nature alone? By now, I have created my own fictional associations, visualizing little white hanging cups when I don a LOV-rich perfume, which sometimes even makes me wish I were a cow grazing in the plains. But the tiny hanging cups exist only in mind, dangling like silver bells tinkling in the wind, shimmering in the sun.

Perhaps it does not matter whether I ever met LOV in person, whether I ever saw the smooth white rounded cups hanging like miniature lanterns, for they illuminate the olfactory sphere beyond all eyes and ears nonetheless, within my very own mind. They are every bit as real to me as the sound of my comely white cat’s contented purr after feasting on a gleaming porcelain dish of flaky haddock.

Lily of the Valley.

While looking at this beautiful vintage Diorissimo ad, my memory reminded me of this story. A story as timeless as Diorissimo, and as pure as fresh lilies. This story transports us to the most romantic occasion of the year: Valentine’s Day; and to the most enchanted place on Earth: an old quartier in Paris. As this is the perfect setting for love, all that can take place is the greatest love story of all times.

Why is it the greatest love story of all times? Because it meant everything to its two lovers. For them, their love is all there is. When they are together, the world reduces so much that only the two of them fit in it. When they are apart, everything around each of them becomes a blur; and all they can see, feel, and think about is their loved one.

And Valentine’s Day is the most special day of the year for them. What makes it special? That they will spend it together. There is a magic in the air, in the river, and in everything that surrounds them. And all they need to be happy is their mutual love, but even here, a little help is always welcome.

And little indeed was the help they received. Little, white, soft, and delicately scented. It came in the form of lilies of the valley. Hundreds, and even a single one, of these flowers can transmit in a few seconds everything a lover wishes to say.

One night he was strolling around Paris, with no other thought than the woman he loved. Unknowingly, and by impulse, he kept walking, until he arrived to a place he had never been to before. A hidden treasure in the middle of a silent street, It was a flower shop.

It was bright and spacious; and filled with all kinds of blooms. He was not able to resist the temptation, and walked in. Around him, he saw every flower known to man. From the most classic ones to exotic acquisitions from the most remote places of the world. This flower shop was the ideal place; only there he could find the perfect flower to present his loved one with.

He searched all over the shop; but, for some reason, the perfect gift seemed to escape from him. First, he thought of roses. Red roses, as red as hearts; but no, those weren’t really in their story. Maybe something exotic that came from a far away jungle? But those meant nothing to them. He kept searching with the strength that thinking about his loved one gave him. Finally, he spotted the perfect gift in a corner.

Determined, he walked towards it. When he was close enough, he realized that the magic flower that had caught his eye was lily of the valley. Unable to resist its charm, he purchased as many flowers as he could carry.

He then took them to the place he cherished the most on Earth; the place where he knew his loved one would be awaiting him. In entering her apartment, his eyes had the more ardent look a man’s eyes can have. This, only his loved one could have known, since his face was hidden behind all the blooms he was carrying.

Instinctively, she knew he would come to her that night. She was impatiently awaiting him when the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, all she could see was a white veil with a few green streaks.

She knew it has him behind those flowers before she could even see his face or hear his voice, before he even said a word. He didn’t even have to say much, since all those little white blooms spoke directly to her heart. He presented him with the flowers, and only had to say a simple, but meaningful, line:

“Do you know why lilies seem to be facing downwards? Because they want to admire all earthly things. Just like your beauty, my joy, and our love.”

And it was with these heartfelt words, and a long kiss, that their love was sealed forever under the white veil created for them by hundreds of lilies of the valley.

The shock of perfection, the white bells shivering in the old fashioned bud vase, so incongruously placed there on the butcher's block. Wiping her hands on the long striped apron she had nearly become used to, she plucked at the little card accompanying the mysterious bunch of Lily of the Valley.

"To Clara, with all due deference to the sacred Language."

Not signed. It didn't need to be. She touched her finger to a single flower, bending awkwardly as she breathed in that particular fragrance, the freshness of Spring, the heady giddiness of youth.
 
Every year, on the first of May, he placed that bunch of flowers on the counter of her butcher's shop. A great tradition in France, a token of friendship, of regard. Every year, whilst she was out the back, or busy with a customer. Every year she swallowed her tears and looked at the picture of her dear departed husband, hanging proudly on the wall behind her. Ashamed of wishing she could forget, sometimes.

A small, warm tear that cooled as it slid was stopped in its tracks. Lifting a stalk from the vase, she breathed deeper, brushed the flower over her lips, looked across the cobbled street still shiny from the rain, to the florists directly opposite. She knew he would be there, hunched in the colourful buckets in the window, pretending to be busy, tentitively watching her reaction.

Every year, for thirty years, this gentle ritual, this complicated dance of things left unsaid.

Undone.

This year she smiled.

He stopped in his tracks, like the tear, she thought. A bit wet, but warm and from the heart. He stood slowly, cupping his back, brushing pollen from the arms of his faded wool jacket. 
She giggled, a girlish sound, incongruous from the grey haired lady who people called old, who clucked their tongues and said wasn't it a shame, widowed at fifty, left on the shelf, a butcher's wife working every day God sends, eighty years old, who would want her now? 

As she untied the apron strings, she paused, letting the memories wash over her as she waved at the astonished old man across the street, a smear of pollen clearly visible on his face. 

She remembered the long walks, the whispered meetings, borrowing her mother's lily of the valley perfume, feeling grown up at last but still so innocent, unsure of who she was yet. She remembered the terrible disapproval of his parents, a sting like a slapped face, they wanted better for their only son, the golden boy who was going to study in Paris, who represented their collective dreams of leaving.

The boy who came back, to find his sweetheart married to another - a perfectly nice man who adored her too, who looked after her, whom he could never bring himself to hate. 

She remembered when the boquets started, the year Claude took up the mantle of Florist from his great aunt when she died. Two years after her husband departed, too soon to look Claude in the eye for too long, with her husband's glance still warm on her face. Too soon, too soon she said, every year since, every year clasping that token of regard, the same well meaning note.

Peering into the foxed old looking glass, for a moment, in that kind light of early evening, she saw beyond the crinkles to the eyes he'd called a teal blue. The colour of the sea just before the storm breaks. She lifted a stalk of the lily of the valley and tucked it behind her ear, nestled in the careless strands escaping the hasty chignon of a woman who no longer cares what people think. 

A spot of red on the pure white blossom, where she'd touched the flower with hands still bloody from her day's work, like an omen, like something  from a fairy tale. Some people in the village still held that Lily of the Valley sprang from the blood of the ancient Saint Leonard of Noblac and his heroic struggle with a fearsome dragon.

Poppycock. Utter twaddle. 

She smiled again, folding her apron, carefully, pulling down the blinds of the shop and walking outside, allowing herself to drink in the freshness, the cool steely newness that follows a heavy shower. 

She saw him stand beside his counter as she crossed the street, feigning nonchalance, his hand gripping the edge of the polished mahogany, obviously unsure. She felt the breeze trace the cold line on her face, where the tear had been stopped. Our Lady's Tears - another name for Lily of the Valley, another legend long dead but for the delighted whisperings of maudlin young girls and superstitious old gossips. In this tradition, The flowers sprouted from the tears of The Virgin Mary as she knelt at the feet of the crucified Christ. Another tale had the blooms grow from the tears of Eve as she was forced from The Garden of Eden. 
Whichever you plumped for, hardly a bundle of laughs.

No. She preferred the sacred Language he'd referred to on the card. The Language of Flowers. That antiquated charade. It still made her giddy, how silly. 

She pushed open the door with more confidence than she felt, setting the shop bell ringing; the white bells in her hair nodding, as though they had always supposed this would happen one day. One year, one May the first when the butcher's widow smiled again. When she remembered who she was.

"Hello" she said, nervous but as brave as she'd ever felt.

Some people, the wisest kind, believe the old books, the old meanings, the ones that speak when propriety demands you hold your tongue. In The Language of Flowers it's quite simple.

Lily of the Valley: a return to happiness. 

Lily of the valley - by Atsuko Toriyama

I thought my first love was the last in my life, but it wasn’t. The innocence and hope that grew inside of me is gone, as a child that becomes an adult and faces the transition phase of adolescence. It’s nature.

It has been difficult to live. Now I feel an inexplicable emptiness, my vision is black and nothing else matters to me. I sit in front of the table for meals, thinking, I live to eat or the food is there to support me? Do I need to make any decision? Do I need to do something? Or think of something? While I don’t know, I eat. Things don’t make sense anymore, but while I think about it all, I still eating and swallowing things. I just don’t know.

Nobody can help me. I live my own life, and the only person who can save me is myself, nobody else. I would like to say that everything is human nature. What isn’t normal? Everything is normal today. The only thing that isn’t normal for me at the moment is myself. And I’m the only one who can see, feel, smell, hear what happens here. I with mine, you with yours, they with theirs.

And so now I spend my days in my room as a rectangular box. The clock ticks simultaneously to the beat of my heart. My heart is a clock. But maybe humans aren’t very different from a machine, with all their systems. The heart is nothing more than a machine of contraction and relaxation of muscle to eject blood to the body. But ironically, the heart is heart, and that is what human differs from a machine. And it hurts with every heartbeat.

I feel, you feel, they feel. Human is a small but complex creature; lonely but doesn’t live alone; pure and honest with himself, but has the instinct of self preservation. I would say we’re like a delicate but poisonous flower called lily of the valley. It’s like a small crestfallen bell waiting to be played for the return of happiness.

I don’t remember anything. I need to remember that I know love. I need time to get to remember.

I loved you.

And I still alive.

Growing up as I did with a bed of lilies of the valley in my parents' yard, it was not so surprising that the first perfume I chose for myself was Coty Muguet des Bois. My first bottle was the parfum de toilette, which in those days was sold in the graceful splash bottle shaped like a bell. I requested this for my eight grade graduation.

It became my signature fragrance in high school; I recall wearing it on the day that our glee club performed at a home for retired nuns! Intoxicated with the scent, I hoarded my 50 cents per week allowance so that I could walk into D. M. Read and put my money on the counter for the .25 oz. parfum (which cost all of $6.25 in 1970); this indulgence made me feel very grown up! It was by no means the last time I returned to that counter.

Four decades later, I continue my love affair with the little white bells, and have since then worn many perfumers' interpretations of the scent that nature guards so jealously. Each spring sees me picking a handful of the flowers in my garden so that I may compare their scent with that of the various muguet perfumes I have acquired. I can't see myself ever becoming weary of this delightful pastime.

Three Muguet Haiku:

Blossom of the shade,
You hide your beauty away.
Oh, spring renewal!

Dance through the night,
And ring out your sweetest bells.
Oh, invade my dreams!

Bathed in morning dew,
Innocence restored in scent.
Oh, Muguet des Bois!

A Father's Love

In 1994 I planted five lilies of the valley by the front door. Nothing came up. For the next ten years I was heartbroken every spring to find nothing. Oh, ocassionally a leave would come up but no flowers. I considered replanting every year but my dad said no, they will bloom when they are ready. Daddy loved flowers, from the most exotic hothouse orchids to the little buttercups that sprang up wild by the roadside. "There are no ugly flowers, all flowers are beautiful" daddy always said. Twelve years after that planting daddy died. The next year something wonderful happened. The liles came up and blossomed. Thousands of them. They had spread and circled around the house. The entire yard was a blanket of lilies. The soft spring breeze took their perfume all over our tiny neighborhood. The next year they disappeared again. You may not believe in such things but I do: I believe daddy made those lilies bloom to let me know he is still there for me and to tell me to never give up hope. Maybe they will come back again. I have hope that they will.

"An Ode for Lily of the Valley"

You bow, but you never give in.
In the valley, you flow with the wind.
Wind blows, the shivering body glows with crispy elegance,
an elegance that others can never come close.

It's love. It has to be love that fertilizes my story.
It's a memory. It should be a memory that bears tranquility.
It's the white flower that recalls purity.

Lily of the Valley, you sing the tune that jumps out of the petal.
That's the tune lights up the shadow.

The crispy elegance at heart, the soothing power within,
The tune that will never gone with the wind.

My Memories of the Lily of the Valley

Oh the memories I have when I think of Lily of the Valley. The tiny, pure white flowers that made my childhood feel heavenly and superior. I used to go to my grandmother's house every spring and summer to help her with her garden. My grandmother used to pick roses, tulips, and other flowers to create perfumes and bouquets, but I was more intrigued by the white, bell shaped flowers that were surrounded by green leaves. I remember sitting in the green grass just staring at those flowers and feeling a connection with them. It was kind of like we came from the same place or something. I was young, so I had a very imaginative and adventurous mind. I used to always ask my grandmother, "Grandma, are Lily of the Valleys angels that grow from the ground to bless us?" She always told me yes because she wanted me to have a spirtual bond with nature. My mind still wanders off to a different place when I think of those flowers.

One of my greatest memories was running into the garden, hoping that more Lily of the Valleys had bloomed. My grandmother used to tell me to calm down, and that the flowers weren't going to go anywhere, but I didn't really care. I wanted to see those flowers while they were still freshly bloomed.

The memories are so vivid, as if everything happened yesterday. I used to always draw Lily of the Valleys, and my grandma used to frame them and hang them on her walls. It was just something about that flower that made me love it. It was like a gift sent from Heaven; a beautiful art of work. One day, my grandmother picked me some Lily of the Valleys and told me to put it close to my bed at night for sweet dreams. I put the flower in a vase and I sat the vase on top of a drawer next to my bed. I remember I used to have these my dreams. Dreams about falling asleep in my grandmother's garden and waking up surrounded by Lily of the Valley. I sometimes used to wish that my dreams were reality, but I knew that I couldn't just fall asleep in the garden. Those dreams came from my love for the flower and my love for the garden. Lily of the Valley was and still is my escape from all of my troubles.

Lily of the Valley was loved by others as well, not just me. My grandmother and I used to walk to this little shop where pastries and candy was sold. She used to bring the baker a vase full of Lily of the Valley every week because he, like myself, thought that the flowers bought happiness and joy. Lily of the Valley bought the happiness out of people, no matter what mood they were in. To me, Lily of the Valley is a symbol of peace and happiness.

My grandmother used to make fragrances and floral arrangements for a living, and she used to sell them. I just loved the smell of her fragrances though, and so did everyone else. She'd buy essential oils and she created fragrances inspired by the flowers in her garden. My favorite fragrance of hers was, of course, Lily of the Valley. She wore the light, floral fragrance with grace and charm. It reminded me alot of spring and summertime, my two favorite seasons. She used to dab a little on her wrists and neck. Her whole house smelled like Lily of the Valley, giving it a relaxing, calm vibe. She also used to wear Lily of the Valley by Floris; another beautiful perfume. My grandmother still wears that fragrance and I still love the smell of it.

I'm alot older now, but I still love to go to my grandmother's house to help her with her garden. When I go to her garden, it feels like I've stepped back into my 5 year old body. The memories come back to me about how much I used to love being there and how much I loved the flowers. There's more Lily of the Valleys in her garden now, but that's a good thing to me. I still sit down in the grass and look at them as if I was a little boy again. The delicate appearance and light scent of the flower takes me to a calm, relaxing place where I'm still an innocent child. Those flowers are so inspiring.

It was just yesterday when I went over to my grandmother's house to help her plant some herbs. I love all flowers of all shapes and colors, but Lily of the Valley is my first love. As I stared at the Lily of the Valleys, my grandmother tapped me on my shoulders and said, "You're still in love with them flowers, huh boy?" I responded back with a smile and a yes. My grandmother knew that my love for that flower was strong. She sometimes even told me that I was going to turn into one. Of course, that only made me love them more.

Lily of the Valley is a rich and elegant flower. It represents my childhood, my grandmother, and me. It represents the memories that I have and will forever cherish. The Lily of the Valley isn't just a flower to me, but it's also part of who I am today. I hope to one day share all of my memories with my children and grandchildren. I will always love that flower.

Lily of the Valley is hope and love.

We are all Lily of the Valleys.

I wish Andy all the best in the future with his fragrances. It is a great idea and it's for a good cause.

Where do you hide, lily of the valley?

I have looked for you for so long, but you do not like the place where I live. You are a stranger to me. You love cool weather; you need the shadow of the mountains to grow. There you may spread your unique fragrance, which nobody is allowed to take you.

There are so many legends around you. Are you the tears from Mary's eyes? Are you a flower in love with a nightingale?

Shy and humble lily of the valley, a symbol of a landscape and nature I long for.

Eve's Creation - by K. McBarron.

Come walk with me through the forest glen,
Embrace the beauty that nature provides.
Come tiptoe like fairies to a bubbling stream,
And cast your fears aside.

For standing amongst this beautiful haven,
Where dark hues and shades collide,
Amongst the ferns and bracken,
Is where these flowers hide.

It is easy to be distracted,
By the array of colours in front of your eyes,
The reds, and the blues and the purples,
Although pretty, are what I despise.

Here stands a humble, white blossom,
That is neither majestic nor proud.
She is beauty in all its simplicity,
Pure and delicate like a cloud.

Her aroma is sweet yet fragile,
She cleanses me from my pain.
From the tiny bell-shaped flowers,
She protects me from my shame.

For I created this flower in sadness,
As He tore me away from my love.
No longer shall I walk in Eden,
For I am guarded from above.

There is a gentle breeze through the forest glen,
Her fragrant aroma brings sheer delight,
The lily of the valley is all that is left,
As a reminder of love on a lonely night.

Do you ever think how will the Garden of Eden ?
Imagine a long paved road, bordered, in left and right, with high, round trees which, with their elegant leaves, let
the light of the Midnight Sun reflect in every place around you. As you walk the road you see a gate, a magical white gate, which is the last "obstacle" towards your journey to unknown. This gate is full of multi-coloured flowers and they spread an indistinct, sweet yet pleasant smell to your nose. As you enter in the Garden large butterflies, with their transparent wings, smile to you. You see clearly the round trees which raise haughty from the distance. This beauty caught your eye just for one moment because the wind brings a floating smell; something distinctive, fascinating, mesmerizing. You step more deep in the garden and the fragrance becomes stronger and stronger. You decide to see for yourself where this scent is coming for. In your walk to find this smell rabbits and squirrels tickle your feets. The grass treaded from your stepping release a fresh smell, which in combination with the one you are hunting out, makes you really believe that this is Heaven. The aroma becomes stronger and stronger as you reach the place where this smell comes for - a great white and green valley. You rush in, being intoxicated and stunned, by the beautiful perfume. You lay down, wishing to immortalize the moment, and the little white flowers hug you as now you are a part of them and they are a part of you.

The swill of beauty of bell and petite
surround the will defeat
she comes so silent in the eve
and leaves as fast as she please
almost so to pass her over
but the scent lingers so strong and sober
one may never forget the subtle mood
of what was left with my construe
perfume as eloquent as love itself
ponders no other as she might
life as sweet and tender brings
joy to those who render
ever present in every thought
what might you be known to brought
unique in the spring scent she so brings
fades but heard as she sings

My contribution:

Stealing Lily - by Devon Hernandez

Sniff, sniff. My nose twitches as I inhale, a dreamy grin plastered on my face. I cast furtive glances through the bathroom door, willing my grandmother not to come back the hallway and catch me in the act. I peak slyly through the white eyelet lace curtains to make sure she is still in the backyard tending her roses. I am entranced with the tiny EDT spray bottle with the baby blue cap and dishearteningly small amount of sparkling, spring green liquid that consistently beckons me every time I am in this cottage, in this bathroom.

I cannot recall when I first caught a whiff of this perfume on my grandmother, but it often makes me put my nose to my grandmother’s neck and inform her in my child voice that she smells good. My investigation begins soon after. While on phone calls, or tending her garden, I sneak back to her bedroom, searching her dressing table and drawers for this elixir. Finding nothing, and undaunted, I enter the bathroom and spy a curiously small bottle…something about the blue cap tells me I have found what I have been looking for. My small fingers pull off the cap, bringing the nozzle to my nose. Ah! I take my first spray on my arm, and subsequently my nose is glued to that region for the foreseeable future; at least, until it wears off. This scene replays itself for many months, until one day the little bottle is empty, standing forlornly on the bathroom counter, the lingering scent from the nozzle a tease. I worry that I might be confronted for using the remaining perfume – my grandmother must know by now. I wait for several weeks, through a few visits, and nothing is said. I continue to visit the lonely, empty bottle and pay homage to its previous contents, wishing for more, and never seeing a replacement bottle. Its scent conjures undefined words and feelings in my 6-year-old mind.

It will be many years before I discover that the purely feminine innocence, naivete, and silvery-green-spring scent is a flower known as lily of the valley. Long after my grandmother is gone, I will remember her simply by the smell of Coty’s Muguet des Bois.