This summer the air has hung heavy, in a way I’ve rarely sensed in Southern California. Humid, so the scent of sawdust and mown grass, of horse manure and last night’s skunk children playing about under my walk lights, all meet me in the morning.
These let the past slip into my perception, so that for minutes at a time, I’m not here at all. Time travel, spatial travel, all feel as though they really happen even though I stand here in my front yard by orange trees.
I can see back to New Hampshire, 1972, the morning light on stray horses in our back garden, long grass verges drooping with dew and the occasional sparkle as a drop catches the early summer sun warming into gold. A breath later and I’m in 1974, walking a forest path with the dusty fugg of wild mushrooms rising from the paper bag in my hand. Stop, kneel in the oak duff and dust back the leaves to expose the solemn pink of a hydnum with its little hedgehog spines instead of gills under the cap.
I’ve hear it said that time travel is best invoked by smell. Could be. But perhaps it has to do with having a moment to pause, without the dog barking alarms, without our cats calling for food or the chickens squawking disarray and destruction, maybe it’s the right sound that performs an incantation. Marvelous brains that can give us such gifts, or curse us with them.