Since I started writing for publication, I’ve become more aware of how the brain processes our environment and the body responds to it. One of those senses is our ability to smell. Sometimes we barely notice and other times it allows us to be filled with nostalgia.
Years ago, I would know I was almost home when, about halfway down the Lewiston Hill, the odor from the pulp mill caught my attention. Some called it “the smell of money.” We do have the tempting invitation of waffles, elephant ears at the fair, or the neighbors’ barbecue when they grill a thick steak. The scent of leather, sawdust or puppy breath also make me think of home.