I was standing at my workbench in Pinewood, surrounded by the usual tools of the trade—wax, wicks, and the black matte jars of the Sparkleberry Swamp Candle Co. I was working on my second batch, adjusting the ratios, looking for that perfect olfactory balance.
Then, I inhaled.
In an instant, the swamp was gone. I wasn't in South Carolina anymore.
The scent hit a nerve I didn't know was exposed, and I was suddenly seven years old again. The humidity of the Sandhills was replaced by the crisp, vibrating air of a West Asheville garden. I could feel the sun on my neck and the weight of being carried on my papa's back. I could see my grandma through the lens of her camera, capturing a moment she wanted us to keep forever.
I hadn't seen that photo in years, but my nose remembered what my eyes had forgotten.
It was all there: the earthy, green life of the Lantanas, the damp soil beneath my grandmother's feet, and the warm, spicy wood of my Papa's flannel shirt. It was 1989, frozen in a black matte tin.
This is why I do what I do. At Sparkleberry Swamp Candle Co., we don’t just mix fragrance oils; we hunt for ghosts. We look for the scents that act as keys to the doors of your own history.
My second batch taught me that I’m not just an entrepreneur or a candle maker. I’m a time traveler. And I want to take you with me.