I smell. Let’s face it, we all smell. It is one of the five senses.
What did you think I was referring to? 🙂
On my trip to town to return a faulty hose, the truck had filled with that wonderful plastic funk. I sat for a moment to just inhale. I’m not sure why I like that particular smell–oh yeah, I’m twisted. But it got me thinking about my writing and how I forget to add smell.
You don’t want to insert it just because. Then it grabs the reader like removing your yard shoes in a crowd–maybe you have feet that smell like roses, but my yard shoes have tracked through cow, horse, dog and chicken poop and that’s not even including my sweaty feet.
Right now, I have Carolina Jessamine and Confederate Jasmine blooming. The yellow jessamine’s fragrance reminds me of my childhood and playing with friend, Boo. Her mother grew the most wonderful flowers and landscaped four acres of yard, plus raising four kids–or twelve as the Yeakel house was THE place to be. We caught horny toads in the front that was xeriscaped–way before it became fashionable. The plantation house front lawn was just like I read about in my books. We went to Asia in the backyard with the bamboo. Climbed trees.
The jasmine is the last plant my father made for me. Each new leaf and bloom remind me of him, and his magnificent backyard of huge oak, elephant ears, sultana, and his love. I did not inherit his green thumb, but I’m trying.
I love the smell of a horse and the sweat stained saddle after a long leisurely ride. Indescribable. The salty tang of the ocean. New cars. Sweet feed. Puppy breath. Baking cookies. My husband–most of the time even with a funk, but not all. (You can fill in the blank here.)
And the one smell that totally makes me weak, the scent of a freshly bathed infant slathered with Baby Magic.