It's at times like this that a linguaphile truly appreciates a pure subject/verb/object combo. To be clear: I don't smell dirty. (And we won't even BEGIN to go where the adverbial sense of that sentence might take us. This is a family site, after all.) But I do love the whiff of fresh dirt. It has the olfactoral bliss of the baby lime-green of new grass. From my memory bank, it's still cool under your hands should you decide to perform the planet's best-EVER hand stand for the neighborhood riff-raff. And for me tonight, it also pulled from the air the reassuring honks of the neighborhood moms from 30 years ago, calling "Time for your ba-aaath... get in here, quick! I called you twice already, and the street lights are ON!"
THE REAL START OF MY STORY:
We spent the week-end in Edmonton, Alberta, celebrating my mother-in-law's 90th birthday. In January, the "Gateway to the North" is usually knicker-frostin', nose-hair freezin,' "I forget where I put my fingers" chillin' COLD this time of the year. True, this story would have been much better if I could have regaled you with accounts of squeaky snow under frozen-square tires, but alas.... At -10C, it was a mild week-end. The natives didn't even bother with gloves. I did, but since a two-year old left the party Saturday night without even his boots or coat on--"We just threw a blanket over him and tossed him in the car"--I can't find it within my Canajun soul to complain. It wasn't even cold enough to necessitate plugging in the rental car. And yes: normally in Canada, if your car is parked outside anywhere east of Vancouver from December to March, you do have to plug your car in. Otherwise, you will quickly become acquainted with the sound a battery makes in distress. It's neither pretty, nor productive, and is usually followed with a hearty Canadian, "Ahh, shit." We can say that word with impunity there, since usually it either involves actual cow poop (as in, "Don't come in here with your boots on; you got shit on 'em,") or the inability to smell said poop due to frikkin', freezin', battery-squishing cold. In either case, the usage is fully warranted. And now, back to our story...
A total lack of squeaky snow notwithstanding, this morning we made a teary good-bye to a 90-year old post-farmer chick happily settled in the world's BEST seniors' residence (thanks Harold, Sharon, Peter and LeIsle!). This was followed almost immediately by a stress-filled 20 minutes in the "bad room" in the immigration pre-clearance stopover at the Edmonton airport with a twist ending (more on this in tomorrow's posting). Finally, after 2.5 uneventful hours in a smallish yet stable aircraft zooming southward, I found myself delighted to be stomping around my own northern CA neighborhood, smelling dirt.
Unless you have ever waited a full six months in white silence to see fresh green stuff or to catch the whiff of rapidly thawing earth on the breeze, you just haven't really ever appreciated the exquisite aroma of room-temperature dirt. Trust me, it's worth a couple of winters of brain freeze to build up a pattern of recognition and appreciation when the sensation hits.
As some wise dude (too lazy to Google it now, but I promise the reference will show up in a Pink Fluffy posting near you soon) once said, "A rich man never knows the joy of a new potato." Well, I'm not rich (except in every way that counts), but I do know the value of great dirt when I smell it.
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