Walking in the Australian bush I could definitely smell skunk. I knew there were no skunks in Australia, but that was certainly the skunk smell. It transported me to a long time ago when I was a child. I was in my grandparent's house in the Adirondack Mountains in northern New York State near the Canadian border. From my bedroom window I could see Mount Whiteface which had snow on top most of the year. Lying under my paraneh (goose down stuffed quilt) with only my head sticking out my face tingled from the cold - my frozen breath a white vapour in front of me - sometimes a musky odour would drift into the room. It was the spray of a skunk. Close up as many an Adirondack dog knows it is overpowering. A wise dog avoids a skunk thereafter. The stench of butyl mercaptan lasts for a long while. From a distance the smell is pleasant to me and brings memories of the pine forests with springy, fallen needles underfoot.The smell came from a plant called green kamala (Mallotus claoxyloides). It is also called Smell-of-the-Bush and Odour Bush. I planted the shrub in back of the house, and the occasional fragrance issuing from it takes my back to another place in another time. The sadness of nostalgia merges with the happiness of the present.

Dear David f,

Yes, certain aromas do bring back certain memories...

I wrote this quite a few years ago, it's called -
'Coffee Memories.'

'Slowly I opened my eyes,
It was morning.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, good and strong,
A whisper of bacon, stirred a sleeping memory...

All too vividly brought back a ship,
Sailing from familiar shores,
Tear-filled eyes of family and friends.
A distant waving of a hankerchief,
Until the coming of darkness engulfed
even the sound of sea gulls.

Home, how well remembered,
Clean sheets, the smell of cooking,
Saturday nights before a crackling fire.
A happy place filled with laughter,
A treasured link in the reality of change.

Change came swiftly, always remaining constant.
Faces, places, never two alike.
The search for truth in new experiences,
Time no longer measured, and yet.

The heart ached for the familiar
The door had not been closed.
The road back was a long one,
And much would yet be reached.

But someday I knew the path
would homeward turn and soon,
While coffee in the morning
stirred for me a memory still."

Perhaps our new found poverty will make us appreciate the simple things in life.

Dear Arjay,

"Our new found poverty?"

This is nothing.

My parents arrived in this country with only
the clothes on their backs. They worked for everthing.
And they never ever considered themselves 'poor.'
The only people that my father considered poor
were ones he considered "spiritual beggars."

Appreciate the simple things in life?

You betcha!
Always have, always will.

People who appreciate simple pleasures like a good cup of coffee do not have grounds for complaint.

Dear David f,

They may have grounds, but its not in
their ethos. They simply do what needs
to be done.