I first walked into Funchess Hall as a timid college freshmen, looking for the office of my assigned academic advisor. I had fantasies of being a marine biologist at the time and they all harbored in the back corner of Funchess. The first time I went down the stairs to the bottom floor it felt like I was walking down into a pool. Those stairs have always felt that way to me though I can never guess why. In some places, the building smells like a pool, too. In other places it smells like something else.
Ideas and fantasies change, so a few years after a short stint in botany I found myself once again lurking the halls of Funchess; or Fungus, as it was referred to by a friend. The name stuck, and I became stuck in that building as I worked through and eventually received a diploma in horticulture.
During that time I became quite familiar with the pungent aromas that Fungus had to offer. Sometimes the bottom floor had a slight whiff of strawberry cupcakes, but that was the only pleasing smell. The back hall always had an odor of burnt almonds, probably because of some seed-drying machine somewhere close. The marine biology corner can sometimes smell of fish, and entomology on the third floor smelled of, well, entomology. Oddly enough, the Soils hall never smells of dirt, only floor cleaner.
I came to dread some of those smells, especially the burnt almond one, but it was suffered through all the same. Then came the day I graduated, and I was free, free, free of Fungus.
Then . . .
I came back. Back to Auburn, back to Fungus, back to roaming the odorous halls. The first time I walked back into the building after my long absence it smelled like good ol’ Fungus, and I smiled as I walked down the steps. Sometimes, while giving a tour of our facilities or walking down to send a fax I would catch a whiff of strawberry cupcakes or the smell of markers near the design room. I would grin, and continue on.
I left Fungus today. Life is always going on, and now it is taking me away from Fungus; from Auburn. This time I didn’t quite want to put Fungus behind me. I wanted to stay, burnt almonds and all.
I stepped out of my office this afternoon, holding the last bits of my working life there; I looked down at my new watch to check the time, then began to walk away. I took my usual route through Fungus’ grid-like hallways, hoping not to forget this, this last walk. How can I remember?
Smell. Big, deep breaths, in and out, smell the memories. I caught a whiff of the design room that smelled of markers and eraser dust and Pounce. I got a good nosefull of the ever-present burnt almonds. Doesn’t it smell nice? Walking by the break room now, smell the overcooked coffee in the carafe. I made my way through the marine biology corner and am met with a whiff of fish. I was going to do that once. Who would’ve thought that would change?
I walked up the stairs and out the doors with the smells of Fungus in my nostrils, in my memories, they are preserved in my mind. The wind gusted as I made my way to Elliott with my hair flapping in front of my face. The smell of freshly cut clover blows by. All the smells — they help me remember.
