Mulling things on my morning ramble
with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
I can't figure out how to describe the scent of a freshly split green hull of a walnut.
Yesterday, my youngest boy found one on a way back from a family bike ride to a graveyard. (Why we were visiting a graveyard on one of the last beautiful Saturday afternoons of the year is another story.)
And I wanted to put words to the distinctive notes of a freshly split green walnut.
The hedge apples, now splitting and beginning a slow rot, on the back side of the town pond have a citrus odor.
That one I can nail.
Crossing the railroad tracks to the town pond at dawn this morning, lingering wisps of burning leaves hung in the stilled air.
The odors piled up.
To my hands clung the scent of the onions, tomatoes and basil I cut in the pre-dawn darkness to put in our small crock pot with the wood duck I shot yesterday. That's lunch with the Bears after church.
It was a rich weekend for scents and odors.
The musty scent of harvested corn and soybeans hung thick on a foggy morning yesterday as we put out the decoy spread on opening morning for waterfowl in Illinois' north zone.
Afterward, the garlic-rich deer sausage Jeff Norris pulled out at lunch accented the spread on the tailgate of Jerry Pabst's pickup.
A man after my own heart, Norris opened a home-canned quart jar of pickles he pickled with cucumbers, dill and peppers he grew himself.
And he told me how to grow my own garlic. The time to plant is now.
Scents of a fall.