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I have a weak sense of smell, but the smells I can sense are sharply evocative for me.
There's the smell of a rocky shore, made up, I think, mostly, of decaying algae and invertebrates drying on the edges of tidepools. It doesn't smell like death, though: it smells like earnest life scrabbling on the margins: like the warmth of the sun on the crashing cold waters. The smell of salt water, of wet sand, of dry sand and dryer rock. It's one of the earliest smells I can remember, from when I was a tiny girl dancing in the surf, singing back to the waves. The smell of the fog that comes in over the shore at evening.
There's the smell of sycamore, almost fusty, bringing to mind the patchwork bark, the stiff, fuzzy leaves, the morningstar seed pods that filled my great-aunt's back driveway. That sycamore was the biggest one I have ever seen, even taking into account that the last time I was there I was still quite young. That house, a Valley farm adobe, was a place of drama as well as a cool dark sanctuary on white hot days. It was the home of mystery to me, a place where secrets dwelled and stories told over my head held deep import I would never quite grasp.
There's the smell of a golden summer hillside, when no herb or forb is green, the air is still and dry, the sky pale and cloudless at midday. Dirt as yellow as the grass, grasshoppers blending in to the dirt, the world holding its breath, waiting for the rain to come and fire season to be over. The smell of fire. You can tell from some miles away whether the smoke comes from a grass fire, a scrub fire, a house fire, or a fireplace. Depending on where you are when you smell it, your pulse races to a different rhythm for each of these. Water has a tangy metallic smell when it comes out of a hot dry hose on a day like that, when the mothers and children are wetting down the roofs of the houses and the men and older boys are up on the hillside with wetted blankets, working to smother the fire before it comes to the houses. The smell of singed wet wool.
There's the smell of raindrops on cement, very much like the smell of water from a hose. The smell of more rain, of heavy clouds and the world suddenly very wet and never dry again for months. The smell of mud. Of wet wood. Of rubber raincoats. Rising water, and now the grownups are digging into wet sand and building barricades to stop the water. Earthworms struggling to the top of the mud, sliding across the sidewalk.
There's the smell of grass blades in the wet earth. And just as those infant grass blades barely penetrate to the air above, there's the best smell of all, the smell of plum blossoms on the dark gnarled branches. Almost the earliest of the spring trees to bloom, definitely the sweetest. The smell is the smell of mystery: it's musky, compelling, but light as mist, as air: it doesn't flood the world, but it's there to be found in the shelter of the plum tree. Before long the earth is carpeted with the pale purple-pink petals and the hard green ovaries swell behind the scruffy little stamens which remain. The smell dissipates quickly, leaving a sensation like a dream of life and death.
If the tree would oblige me, I could stand years in its branches, breathing the smell of its blossoms. But the flowers fall soon, and the fruit ripens soon after, and too soon the world is dry and waiting again, waiting for the rain.
I have a weak sense of smell, but the smells I can sense are sharply evocative for me.
There's the smell of a rocky shore, made up, I think, mostly, of decaying algae and invertebrates drying on the edges of tidepools. It doesn't smell like death, though: it smells like earnest life scrabbling on the margins: like the warmth of the sun on the crashing cold waters. The smell of salt water, of wet sand, of dry sand and dryer rock. It's one of the earliest smells I can remember, from when I was a tiny girl dancing in the surf, singing back to the waves. The smell of the fog that comes in over the shore at evening.
There's the smell of sycamore, almost fusty, bringing to mind the patchwork bark, the stiff, fuzzy leaves, the morningstar seed pods that filled my great-aunt's back driveway. That sycamore was the biggest one I have ever seen, even taking into account that the last time I was there I was still quite young. That house, a Valley farm adobe, was a place of drama as well as a cool dark sanctuary on white hot days. It was the home of mystery to me, a place where secrets dwelled and stories told over my head held deep import I would never quite grasp.
There's the smell of a golden summer hillside, when no herb or forb is green, the air is still and dry, the sky pale and cloudless at midday. Dirt as yellow as the grass, grasshoppers blending in to the dirt, the world holding its breath, waiting for the rain to come and fire season to be over. The smell of fire. You can tell from some miles away whether the smoke comes from a grass fire, a scrub fire, a house fire, or a fireplace. Depending on where you are when you smell it, your pulse races to a different rhythm for each of these. Water has a tangy metallic smell when it comes out of a hot dry hose on a day like that, when the mothers and children are wetting down the roofs of the houses and the men and older boys are up on the hillside with wetted blankets, working to smother the fire before it comes to the houses. The smell of singed wet wool.
There's the smell of raindrops on cement, very much like the smell of water from a hose. The smell of more rain, of heavy clouds and the world suddenly very wet and never dry again for months. The smell of mud. Of wet wood. Of rubber raincoats. Rising water, and now the grownups are digging into wet sand and building barricades to stop the water. Earthworms struggling to the top of the mud, sliding across the sidewalk.
There's the smell of grass blades in the wet earth. And just as those infant grass blades barely penetrate to the air above, there's the best smell of all, the smell of plum blossoms on the dark gnarled branches. Almost the earliest of the spring trees to bloom, definitely the sweetest. The smell is the smell of mystery: it's musky, compelling, but light as mist, as air: it doesn't flood the world, but it's there to be found in the shelter of the plum tree. Before long the earth is carpeted with the pale purple-pink petals and the hard green ovaries swell behind the scruffy little stamens which remain. The smell dissipates quickly, leaving a sensation like a dream of life and death.
If the tree would oblige me, I could stand years in its branches, breathing the smell of its blossoms. But the flowers fall soon, and the fruit ripens soon after, and too soon the world is dry and waiting again, waiting for the rain.