Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Smoking Leaves

Yesterday I didn't have intenet access, so here is yesterday's posting:

November 4, 2014

I hadn't inhaled that aroma since I was a kid, but it was unmistakeable. Once you've smelled it, you can't forget it. My kids and grandkids may never have the privilege of smelling it, but I was born at just the right time, and remember vividly those fall days when my grandfather would rake the leaves to the curb and set them afire. Everyone did it back then. You could walk entire suburban streets, and as far as you could see, the curbs were smoldering, giving off their sweet smells. Nobody gave any thought to pollution; after all, my grandfather's generation lived through the heady years of burgeoning factories with their smokestacks spewing with impunity heaven knows what into the air.

Today, the EPA and even local municipalities have banned outdoor fires of all sorts. No one burns their trash anymore, and in many places, campfires are taboo. The fragrant aroma of burning leaves is mostly a memory except on those rare occasions when someone out in the countryside either hasn't heard or defiantly ignores the regulations. I was riding my sidehack the other day when I caught the faint scent of burning leaves that made me smile as it took me back fifty years in time. I've been told that our sense of smell has a greater capacity to trigger memories and emotions than any other of the five senses. I believe it. All I have to do is drive route 60 on a summer evening. When I pass Spartan Tool, I can usually smell the odor of the natural gas escaping from the wellheads in the swamp to the west. Immediately, I am transported over forty years back to when Linda and I were first married and living in the oil country of Allegany county.

Childhood and young adult memories are for many people, filled with terror, pain, and guilt. I am among the few who seemingly have been spared, and am grateful for this olfactory gift. My hearing may not be up to snuff, but there's nothing wrong with my nose; so these occasional whiffs open doors (one of them is Red) that take me back to pleasant places and remind me to give thanks for the life I have been given.

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