I remember the pungent odor of the coat closet in the first house I ever lived in. (I was four when I left.)

It was strong, like leather. It clung to everything for years! I remember when I was about 9 my mother pulling out a most hideous decoration, a mobile with gold tassels, inverted, so they looked like fireworks, and “the smell” hung on it. It would shock me into memory. Pictures would flit through my brain of my bedroom with the white linoleum, the yellow (!) carpet in the living room, the fireplace.

The smell wasn’t really leather, though. It had a foul undertone. Like an aftertaste, it wasn’t as sharp as the initial odorous offense. It reminded me of sweaty socks. Not pleasant.

Apparently, no matter what my mother tried the only way to stop the smell was to close the door. No air freshener could ever cover that up, it only added to the offensiveness.

And it didn’t stop at leather and sweaty sock. It contained a hint of mothball. It was a well aged smell, like a fine wine. Fermented. Obnoxious.