It’s a big bottle, with square-cut sides. The teal and gold foil label is an ornate design that hearkens back to a vintage era. The liquid on the inside: spun gold; a cologne, a body splash, a scent. The screw top whirls on glass threads easily; the cap slips off and contents slosh loosely over cupped palms.
A dash here, a splash there; perhaps just a careful daub on the wrist.
4711 has been around as long as I can remember, always holding a place of honor on grandma’s dresser. Over the years her hair has grayed, her body stooped. She has lived in threes home since I’ve been able to count and the bottle that holds her scent is always there; its evocative, musky tang an immediate El Train ride back to my childhood.
To smell 4711 is to know her neck, the soft spot where I used to rest my cheek. Her hands, cooler with age now, used to soothe me, leaving her whisper of love on my hair, my clothes.
Produced in Austria, there was a time when 4711 could not be bought in America. She had her brother ship it from England, an extravagance that left pre-teen me looking for 4711 in department stores. I wanted to find her scent here, to make her a present of the unattainable. This was the quest that taught me to yearn; to desire, to dream about success against the odds. A bottle of cologne, whose first two numbers add up to the last two, taught me that some things are precious and should be protected and nourished.
Too many years have gone by since I was a small child in grandma’s embrace. My infrequent trips home show me the hard truths of aging; a dear life winding down. While so much has changed, the bottle of 4711 on the dresser has not. Neither the bottle, its labeling or distinctive odor have altered one bit in more than 30 years. It is a lesson in continuity; to me, it spells love.
It is this sweet nostalgic yearning that draws me to the elaborate display of 4711 in my hometown department store. I am struck by its existence; my unexpected success after so many years of searching. I’ve never seen so many bottles, so many sizes, in one place.
Hesitant, I approach the table, pick up the tester. The cap twists off easily in my hand. I shake a few drops onto my wrist; it dries quickly, leaving a cool tingle. The familiar odor tickles my nose and my heart flutters. I’m a child again, being with grandma, eating Neopolitan ice cream and playing with Chock Full o’ Nuts coffee scoops. I can see the Rockettes high-stepping their way around the grand stage in Radio City Music Hall; I remember climbing hundreds of stairs to reach the top of the Statue of Liberty.
I remember feeling surrounded by love –
For the rest of the day I can smell my grandma in the echoes of 4711.
by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved
