The Perfume Makers

A memoir

Photo by author’s parents circa 1971, Ft. Lauderdale, FL: Beth (left) and Ann (right)

Dad referred to us as the Perfume Makers. My twin, Beth, our shared best friend, Carol and I proudly called ourselves the Three Musketeers, aptly named after the mediocre candy bar whose taut, marshmallow interior was silkily-draped over with actual milk chocolate.

Ft. Lauderdale, Florida was the place, 1970 was the time. This pop culture confection could be pocketed for just 15 cents at the corner 7–11, a convenience store that has recently made an American Dreamlike comeback.

We “Three Musketeers” were avid imitators of life — as only six-year-old girls could be. No, 80’s rock icon Joan Jett had yet not made her riveting punk impact on our generation, nor did we know how to love rock n roll or to put another dime in the jukebox. Since that wouldn’t happen for another 10 years, so we amused ourselves in other ways.

As Mom and Dad puffed behind purple-beads in a room strewn with vinyl bean bags accented with an orange-speckled shag carpet, Times They Are a-Changin’ and Nights in White Satin playing on the record player — weekends came and went, but our games didn’t.

First, we’d gather any scented item, not always pleasant, and blend them together. Carol instigated this activity. I know this is a cliché, but it rolls off the tongue perfectly. My-at–the time other half and I raided the cabinets…