Took a walk this evening. My work keeps me out of town much
of time and in the Maryland-West Virginia area, in the Allegheny Mountains. So my hikes offer a great view of green
mountains, rock faces and hilly terrain. Tonight the woody scent of the trees
mingled with the smell of smoke caught my attention—probably some backyard fire
to celebrate the summer with Smores and stories. Crickets sang in the background.
Kids ran in yard playing some game made up on the spot. A dog barked somewhere,
and neighbors chatted across a fence.
I remembered another time in my life when I was eleven and
went to a boys’ camp. The smell of the wood and smoke reminded me of the forest
and campfires where we cooked food from cans, told ghost stories and sang silly
songs. In a clearing, we’d play capture
the flag long after sunset and into the dark, chasing shadows and calling
to teammates. At night we lay in small tents that smelled of mold and dirt,
trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. Sleep never came until after
midnight, and, once and a while, we’d sneak out and hide in the dark, listening
to the counselors, most of whom were college men working the summer, tell each other stories
of girls and sports and school. In the morning, we’d rise again and eat
pancakes made on a propane cook stove, by a guy named Coach, who always warned us
of a fate worse than death if we complained about the cooking. And we’d dream
of new adventures.
Funny how a smell or a sound or a voice brings back a
memory.
No comments:
Post a Comment