Winter air
Last night on the evening walk I rounded the corner toward our street and caught a spicy whiff of pipe smoke. I find pipe smoke a homey and comfortable smell; it reminds me of uncles and tweed and storytelling and winter nights, even though no uncle of mine ever smoked a pipe.
I inhaled as I crunched along the snowy sidewalk, and I looked around for the pipe smoker, but there was no one there. He must have passed by just moments before, leaving behind nothing but his smoky, earthy fragrance.
This morning, trotting along on a half-inch of new snow, I walked into an invisible cloud of sweet perfume.
Have you ever noticed how smells are sharper and more intense in the winter? Something about the thinness and clarity of the air lets fragrances hang a little longer. In the summer, the air is hot and muggy and thick, redolent with blooming flowers and rotting leaves and newly cut grass and impending thunderstorms and joggers' sweat, a rich, soupy mix all fighting for your attention.
But in the winter, there is nothing to smell. Snow. Just snow. Car exhaust, sometimes, when people idle at the curb, warming their engines before driving off, taillights blinking red in the dark. But mostly just empty, cold air waiting to fill up with whatever scent it is offered: wood smoke wafting from chimneys (or peat smoke), the warm scent blowing from dryer vents, the occasional juicy smell of someone grilling steaks on a snowy deck.
We are headed into one of the coldest weeks of the winter; by Thursday, the temperature is not expected to get above zero, with a strong wind. Dog walks will be truncated; we'll wrap up in wool and rabbit fur and Polarfleece and try to make it six or eight blocks before our glasses freeze to our faces. The air at that temperature feels so clean. I will walk quickly, jerking the dogs' leashes with impatience when they linger at a tree trunk or a fence. But every now and then I will catch a quick whiff of pipe smoke or dryer vent or perfume or steak, reminders that there are other people out in this cold and frozen world, and, just like Boscoe, my nostrils will quiver in response.
