A breath of different air
I was at a band concert last night (another one!) (I'm trying to resist the urge to post pictures) (help me) and as I was leaving the building after I left (I had to leave early because I was dead tired and a little sick) (don't worry, I didn't miss Hayley's big part--a duet feature with a flute player during the song "Into the Storm") I caught of whiff of something non-native to this area.
I can't quite describe it, but it had something to do with redwood trees and beaches and landscaped yards with sculptured bushes and piers and close personal friendship with the sun and mountains and fog and more sun.
The first thought in my head after the all-too-brief nasal encounter was:
California
I smelled California in the air way out/up here in Minnesota.
I think it was the smell of vacation. Those long ago trips to cousins' swimming pools and air conditioning and Poltergeist and wearing one swimming suit for 5 days in a row and bleached hair and chasing dogs and walnut groves and KFC and Grandma's perfume and the smell of her dryer sheets too and tiny ice cubes. But it was also living on the second floor with a view of Bishop's Peak from the miniscule cement deck and the rock at Morro Bay and Jim's master's degree and having only one child, and Foothill Boulevard, and palm trees.
Just for one millisecond, I was either at the beach in Morro Bay, visiting Jim for the first time, or visiting my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and dozens of cousins.
It was nice.
I can't quite describe it, but it had something to do with redwood trees and beaches and landscaped yards with sculptured bushes and piers and close personal friendship with the sun and mountains and fog and more sun.
The first thought in my head after the all-too-brief nasal encounter was:
California
I smelled California in the air way out/up here in Minnesota.
I think it was the smell of vacation. Those long ago trips to cousins' swimming pools and air conditioning and Poltergeist and wearing one swimming suit for 5 days in a row and bleached hair and chasing dogs and walnut groves and KFC and Grandma's perfume and the smell of her dryer sheets too and tiny ice cubes. But it was also living on the second floor with a view of Bishop's Peak from the miniscule cement deck and the rock at Morro Bay and Jim's master's degree and having only one child, and Foothill Boulevard, and palm trees.
Just for one millisecond, I was either at the beach in Morro Bay, visiting Jim for the first time, or visiting my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and dozens of cousins.
It was nice.
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