Ever notice how certain smells can bring back long forgotten memories of places and times? Or people? You know what I mean? Grandma's house at Christmas, the baking sugar cookies, the brown sugar pie, the fir tree, Pap's unfiltered Camels. Or the first day of school. I can't describe that one, but an old lunch box smelled the same. As a fireman different fires had different smells. The grass and leaves of a wildfire. The insulation and tar paper of a house fire. The burnt plastic smell of an electrical fire. Or the burning hay of a barn fire. Honeysuckles bring back memories to me that I haven't thought of in years. They remind me of walking to Pap's house from church with my cousins. The hill right near the church was always loaded with honeysuckle. And we would always pick off a flower, pinch the bottom off, but not the whole way and pull the stem through. This would bring a small drop of nectar. Sweet honeysuckle nectar that we would drop on our tongue. Of course we debated which was better, the white or yellow. Man, that has been almost 30 years but every cool spring day when I smell them blooming I'm right back there.
This means what you think it means. Check back tomorrow for the latest alley shot from the Outskirts of Suburbia.
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