Anticipating the mundane, Monday task of taking out the garbage, I went outside the garage on a lazy-late Sunday afternoon. The moisture-heavy air was clean, allowing the pungently sweet smell of wood smoke to penetrate deeply.
I have always responded to the smell of burning wood -- whether in my home environment or in locations around the world. Smoke stirs something in my DNA -- genetic memories of an icy night on the Kentucky frontier, or the warmth produced in the stone fireplace of a medieval cathedral residence, or the comfort of roasting a rabbit in Gaul, or the smoke made while drying fish caught in the Black Sea. The response to smelling smoke from a wood fire is immediate and friendly.
Watching the smoke curl out the top of my neighbor's chimney, seconds turned into minutes, as the sky darkens and then turns pink-orange in the west as the sun rests for the day. The pleasant odor continues to permeate, as the sky fades to black.
Tomorrow. I can do things tomorrow.
I have always responded to the smell of burning wood -- whether in my home environment or in locations around the world. Smoke stirs something in my DNA -- genetic memories of an icy night on the Kentucky frontier, or the warmth produced in the stone fireplace of a medieval cathedral residence, or the comfort of roasting a rabbit in Gaul, or the smoke made while drying fish caught in the Black Sea. The response to smelling smoke from a wood fire is immediate and friendly.
Watching the smoke curl out the top of my neighbor's chimney, seconds turned into minutes, as the sky darkens and then turns pink-orange in the west as the sun rests for the day. The pleasant odor continues to permeate, as the sky fades to black.
Tomorrow. I can do things tomorrow.
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