A fortune cookie from December of last year told me May would be a month of exploration and adventure. In my Google Calendar, I even marked June 1st, 2025 with a question: did something special happen to you last month? This past week, I received these two. Does this mean I am going to meet a life-long friend over a jar of fermented vegetables while stepping outside my comfort zone? There are four more weeks left. Of course, I have to get up out of my house and go do something. Do not worry. I will let you know if anything happens.
Also, my initial goal was to discuss how I made one of the most delicious ham and cheese sandwiches, courtesy of the tastiest Portuguese roll I have ever discovered in a grocery store, and how eating it stirred the faintest childhood memory of a sandwich and pickle outside a deli in some New England town. I am not certain it ever happened, but I refuse to give it up. However, I have put aside that story for the one below.
Last night was rough. Around 8:30 pm, I went to bed, alone, in the guest room--no need to sleep next to another human being with their body heat. The inside temperature registered about eighty-one degrees. Outside was a degree or two less. The severe thunderstorms which were to bring some relief, failed to materialize. I did wake up suddenly, around midnight, to some flashes of lighting. But the heat reducing deluge of rain never followed. Unfortunately, when I sleep, seventy degrees has me perspiring. Above that, and I am sweating. Throw in humidity, and the heat rashes start appearing. Okay, I ate Chinese takeout earlier that day, and a Nestle ice cream cone. Perhaps two. I cannot recall. Between the intense heat and high sodium levels, I was restless all night.
While air conditioning, which I never had growing up, is available in my house, a co-resident is always reluctant to turn it on before outside temps are steadily above eighty-five. I live in the part of the country where May's climate can go from cool, dry, windbreaker-suitable experiences one day, to hot, balmy, shorts and a tee, do not want to move, the next. So, why put on the AC when, by morning, things will be bearable? While I understand the logic, I refuse to accept it.
Then something happened the next morning. It was five when I woke up from some weird dream, the details of which have long since faded. The air was definitely cooler, but my body ached from all the tossing and turning, and my mind exhausted from the feverish thoughts that bombarded me throughout the night (seriously, I need to cut back on my sodium consumption, probably my sugar intake, too). For the next hour, I lay there daydreaming, until the cats' scratching at the closed door, begging for their breakfast, inspired me to move. Upon reaching the first floor, I began lifting the shades and opening windows in a desperate attempt to bring in the cool, fresh morning outside air. Also, I refused to feed the cats right away--no need to make them think I am at their beck and call.
Well, the last set of windows I approached were already open. They are situated above a couch in the family room, and they look out onto the pool, the patio, and half the yard, which are filled with dying dandelions. At least, I hope they are dying: I spent to days spraying them. Anyway, for some reason I decided to kneel upon the couch cushions, and lean my head towards one of the windows. With my nose just inches from the screen, I smelled it.
Now, you probably already know that smells have a way of conjuring memories. At least they do for me. One such is the smell of recently cut grass still wet with dew. And it has to happen on an early Saturday morning, around mid-March. Also, the air needs to be cool, the sky only slightly cloudy. Finally, you have to be alone, heading to your car, or for a walk. Then you can inhale it. It is the aroma of an early morning, standing in an outfield, next to a fence, the sound of other players taking their positions on one side, and the rushing of cars along a highway, on the other. It is the smell of a newness, an unspoiled possibility, an opportunity to start fresh.
Another one is that of freshly turned earth. Not the kind from digging deep into clayish, compacted, rock-filled soil, while uprooting the stump of a dead tree, or planting a new one. Nor the sandy, loose, ant-filled stuff you some times kick up when you disturb neglected mulched flower beds. No, I am talking about the well-composted, crumbling dark matter that you do not mind mixing with your bare hands, especially after it has been warmed by the sun. It has the smell of wisdom, of what has passed intermingling with what is to come. it, too is full of potential, but of the well-worn variety. It is the reminder of picking firm cherry tomatoes, crunchy cukes, or tender pole beans, and eating them right off the vines. A lesson that hard work does pay off, though the reward is still just as fleeting.
However, on this morning, the perfume that wafted from the backyard, into my family room, was of some other memory, one I could not quite place. It was a tinge of overturned earth without the warmth, a smidge of grass cut days ago, and a hint of a rainfall that intended to wash away the discomforts of yesterday, but failed. Yet, it was not unpleasant in the least. Just not what I had wanted to discover after such a rough and restless sleep. My lungs cried for a cool, wet, grassy, earthy breeze that would clear my head. Instead, my nose drew in a damp and mellow bit of air that tickled my mind.
While it did not inspire me to write a novel, it gave me something to write about for today's blog post.
Perhaps that is what I needed. For now.
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