Its source was unknown — and even if it wasn't, I would protect its identity, since the practice must surely be illegal. In fact, I hesitate to mention it at all with California burning.
But neither illegality nor political incorrectness can erase the fact that I love this scent, that it fills me with both poignance and peace, an unlikely pairing that takes me right back to childhood.
I would have been playing all day in that scent, would have been jumping in those leaves, in big crisp piles of them before they were set to smolder. And soon I would be walking back into my mother's kitchen, not my own. And it was the promise of that warmth and closeness that contrasted so perfectly with the lonely fragrance of ash and oak.
This, along with the scent of tobacco wafting from the big auction houses on the west end of town, were the "smell-scapes" of my Kentucky childhood. I don't smell either of them anymore. But they're there. All it takes is the whiff of burning leaves to bring them back.