Lavender

from the introduction:
A whiff of an aroma recalls a childhood memory—the lavender man standing in front of Whitman's, the landmark Philadelphia confectionery shop, with snow white hair, ruddy pockmarked face, and around his neck a stout strap holding his tray. The tray is filled with lavender buds, violet-blue and redolent to passerby on their way to the glamorous shops of Chestnut Street. He sells his "lavender, sweet lavender, five a pack, six for a quarter" in small glassine envelopes. The lavender man supports himself on crutches, as he is missing one leg. He has claimed the same spot for years, always at Whitman's, where stylish women go to lunch or to savor butterscotch sundaes. Other people have fond childhood memories of lavender. Some fifty years later, as I hang bunches of the fragrant flowers to sell at the Philadelphia Flower Show, women strolling by halt in their tracks as they catch the scent and wistfully recall, "When I was a girl..."