Regions smell differently

In the moving truck on our way to Maine, my brother Tom and I suddenly hit upon the exact smell of my grandparents' house in North Carolina. We were passing through the green hills of Virginia, and the scent of some sweet clover or special Smoky Mountain grass struck us. "It's Saluda!" we said almost simultaneously. Immediately I was running up the big front hill on a late, light summer night, soft grass between my toes and ice cream in my future. But other than the occasional wait for something good (like ice cream, or the arrival of our cousins), I associate those visits to Saluda with a very profound sense the present. We were there; we were with our cousins and aunts and uncles and parents and grandparents, surrounded by love and good food and the quiet beauty of that place.

Tom's son Benjamin experienced the power of smell today too. A Pennsylvania sheep farm gave way all too quickly to rough and rumble New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. "I don' like dat shmell!" He said as burning tire gave way to industrial output and then trash. One day, he may well associate those smells with new York City and the long, long never-ending trip and the idea of shining Maine as his prize. It's his first experience with an already-not-yet circumstance that lasts more than five minutes. His expectation has been suspended long enough; it is time to arrive. That's why last night, he told his father that he wanted to be in Maine right now! The anticipation of the future is so hard on children.