I assembled the slices in a neat, overlapping circle on the aluminum foil. I then took a pinch of sugar mixed with cinnamon and rubbed my finger tips together, sprinkling a generous dose over the apples. The prospect of opening the black, crusty, ash-covered packet a half hour from now and spooning the soft, sticky sweetness into my mouth was so engrossing that at first I didn’t notice the snickering, sly glances and elbow jabs  exchanged by the girls seated around the recreation room.

Ginny’s mother was the leader of the Campfire Girl group and we often held the meetings in their basement. The apple-bakes were a favorite project—we made them at least once a year, taking advantage of their fireplace as the urban stand-in for a campfire.

As the giggles developed into snorts and burst of laughter, I looked up expectantly even as I neatly folded and creased the package into a water tight rectangle. Because of my innocent expression, I quickly became the butt of the joke. It took a while, but finally I figured out that someone, certainly not me, had passed gas. For some obscure reason, the group of fifth grader girls found this hilarious. The only thing they found funnier was my puzzlement.

            The reason for my confusion stemmed from the fact that no one in our family suffered from flatulence. Or, so one would conclude, because up until that time I was barely aware such a function existed, much less that it was considered a humorous event. I suspect that  neither my youthful parents, nor my younger siblings experienced gastric distress, but if they did, it certainly was not discussed, or even acknowledged.

            I remained relatively naïve on this subject until I married. Then I discovered with explosive horror what ‘to let one rip’ really meant.  Moving in with a male who frequently ‘cuts the cheese’ with breathtaking results forced me to face the unpleasant facts about gastric control. It also blew to a hole in my prim attitudes about proper etiquette and decorum regarding such personal matters.

To be honest, as much as I profess to have been unaware of the circumstances surrounding the passing of gas, I must not have been completely clueless. I was, however, exceptionally ignorant about the Catholic religion. I recall reading several times in novels about Catholics genuflecting. Being too impatient a reader to bother consulting a dictionary and having the habit of trying to figure out a word’s meaning by its context I naturally concluded that, as genuflecting always seemed to accompany kneeling, then the word must meant “to fart”. I maintained that misconception until well into my twenties.

            I recall an event—during my adulthood—when my parents and maternal grandparents came for a visit. After supper my grandfather wanted to go outside for a walk. My grandmother and mother became agitated and wouldn’t allow him to leave the house. I couldn’t understand this. I assumed that he felt a little post dinner discomfort and rather than subject the family to any unsavory odors or noises, would prefer to ‘step outside’ for a moment.  I thought it quite tactless for my grandmother to object. Later that evening I learned that my grandfather had been exhibiting symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease and his wife feared that a little after dinner stroll might turn into an all night man-hunt.

            Airline travel certainly puts a damper on the after-dinner constitutional—not that everyone would be as thoughtful as I had credited my grandfather —making airplane rides a particularly gruesome undertaking with my husband. It is not so much that I can’t stand the smell, or even that I’m empathetic for those unfortunates strapped unmercifully in the nearby rows—but I am vexed to think they might mistake me as the source. As my husband lounges in his as carefree as a child, my face is creased with the strain of consternation.  I have found it takes more talent to appear innocent when blameless, than when guilty.

            However, not all embarrassing odors stem from the same geography. I took my two sons on a road trip between Seattle and Reno when the oldest boy was about eleven. He had a pair of L.A. Gear running-style shoes which were scruffy, but not actually decomposing—not outwardly anyway. While on his feet and laced, they were not particularly offensive. Off his feet they smelled like a garbage can in August after a Crab Feed. We spent the night in Salem and I set the shoes outside the motel room door so we could sleep. In the morning I brought them inside while the boys dressed. Several hours later when I pulled over at a rest-stop outside Portland, Peter announced from the backseat than he couldn’t find his shoes. After a quick search—I didn’t need a bloodhound to conclude they were not in the car—I realized he had never put them on. The shoes were expensive enough I briefly considered calling the motel and asking them to send them C.O.D., but decided it would be too humiliating to claim them, even given the relative anonymity of the telephone.

             I have found myself becoming more self-conscious about personal odors as I age. I now fret about bad-breath, foul-foot-odor and arm-pit malaise, just to name a few. The Madison Avenue crowd is constantly thinking up new ways for me to offend my neighbor. It is no wonder so many women have become prisoners in their homes due to agoraphobia— this aptly named fear has it roots in the Greek word agora which means market place and is doubtless the consequence of too much marketing. I recall a shampoo named, Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific! I think there must be a deodorant and/or fragrance for every part of the body, except possibly the ears. How did they overlook the ears? Perhaps the next item will be a perfumed wax which can be inserted in the canal and works like those heat activated Glade plug-in, air-fresheners.

            To assist people betrayed by ‘the toots’, I have been expecting the marketers to offer after-burners—a human version of emission control units—that attach, discreetly of course, to the derrière. However, I expect they will have to invent flame-proof undergarments first.     

Copyright: Linda Glein: 2001