Give me a lungful of fall air and I'm never sorry to see summer come to a close. I draw autumn around me like an old soft sweater; as crunchy leaves litter the street, I can't help but feel a crisp sense of anticipation. New beginnings have a habit of creeping into my life around this season. I think it coincides with the blank slate of a commencing school year, when everything is new; new notebooks, new classes, new clothes, new faces. Most of my previous romantic relationships blossomed sometime between the first day of school and Thanksgiving. I make more resolutions in early September than I do in January. While I'm a far cry from the stereotypical nature-lover, I dare you to try keeping me contained when it cools off outside. Autumn's aroma makes my head swim; glaze it with bonfire, and I could easily give up exhaling altogether and simply explode from joy. It's a fresh, exciting scent I've never been able to describe accurately, full of mystery and silhouetted forest and pumpkin carving and hayrides and chunky handmade scarves. I have a theory it relates to the leaves. After all, leaves never reveal more beauty than in their last phase of life on the tree, transforming from a demure green to a shocking and most unladylike orange or scarlet. It would not surprise me if the caliber of oxygen produced during this time of emblazoned wild abandon was, at the very least, eight times the quality of ordinary air.
The smell of snow is another favorite of mine, although it is unfortunately rare in the south. Nashville winters consist of much wetter and clumsier precipitation, and the resulting bouquet reminds one much more of soggy backyards than garlands and goodwill to all men. When snow does grace us with her presence, however, I revert back to December of 1992, the only white Christmas I've ever experienced. Every clouded breath shrinks me further into my four-year-old self; shrill voice, giant eyes, bird legs and all. Even if it's only a suggestion of frost in the air, it stirs the dusty corners of my memory. While autumn smells of the future and possibility, winter smells distinctly of the past. It smells like ornaments and nostalgia and holidays that should never be celebrated alone. One might also detect a whiff of tension, though it is difficult to say why. There is an unexplained depth and stillness in the breath of winter that can be unsettling if paid close enough attention.
These, of course, are not to be confused with spring's essence, which smells like inexperienced photosynthesis performed by the brave green pubescent buds of April; that atmosphere is one of trial and error, and its gentle wind calls to mind images of heavy prom corsages and yearbook signing and wet grass and early morning exams taken while wearing pajamas. Spring air, to me, does not inspire audacity so much as sloth and an impatience for the freedom of summer (when sloth is entirely excusable, if not expected). Many of those previous relationships that began in the fall ended abruptly in the spring, killed by sheer lack of motivation. Once we unwrapped ourselves from the cozy, asleep sensation of winter, there were far too few reasons to stay together, and so we either went looking for spring in the eyes and arms of someone else or felt quite content to lounge in solitude amidst the baby soft pinkness of spring's breezes.
Summer air, especially in Nashville, is so rude that it is practically nonexistent. Humidity has an indelicate way of smothering the palate (or just smothering, in general), and it grieves me to no end that Nashville summers always overstay their welcome. I don't care for summer, really, and I care even less for the smells of summer unless I am particularly in the mood for a noseful of lake water or bug spray. True, there are the more pleasant, coconutty fragrances one associates with the ocean, like sunscreen and saltwater, but they are rarely the first to come to my mind. Almost every member of my extended family lives in some part of Florida, and as we visited relatives at different times throughout the year, I don't immediately think "summer" when I think "beach." My warm weather memories reek of camp; the hot plastic mattresses in cedar bunks, mildewed laundry bags, mowed grass, chlorine, and the sharp powdery stench of fireworks. Those smells flavor the otherwise drab, odorless void of summertime, the seasonal equivalent of tofu.
Perhaps my aversion to summer's lack of air is what truly makes the scents of fall so remarkable to my weary nostrils. My respiratory system grows so accustomed to settling for next to nothing, to swallowing the thickness of June, July and August...is it any wonder my cells sing with relief when temperatures lower to a breathable level? Is it really so surprising that my oxygen-deprived mind awakens suddenly, clear and ready to embark on any adventure presented? Air, friends, makes all the difference. The simple act of breathing in makes exciting possibilities possible.
Oh, refreshing taste of the October evening!
Allow me to drink this Tang-tinged dusk with thirsty exultation.
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I too have a sensitve nose and related to every word of your post. The older I get the more certain scents take me back in time to very detailed memories.
ReplyDeleteTurnip greens, Chicken and dumplin's, or any food cooked with onions and celery will take me back to my grandmothers tiny kitchen in Eldridge, Alabama. I can clearly see her cooking, always in a dress, the most amazing meals I've ever eaten. There were never less than 10 of the most delectable dishes at every meal.
And, the smell of cornbread and/or chicken soup takes me back to Mamaws red floored, rooster adorned kitchen in Ocoee, Fl.
You are an amazing writer, Mallory. Thanks for the odiferous journey through the seasons.