A few weeks ago I shot my fathers old Springfield 87A "gill gun". While I was shooting it, the smell of gunpowder brought back childhood memories of when my father taught me how to shoot. I remember the distinct smell it made. I remember care free roaming around the woods looking for the opportunity to pick off an attacking pinecone, or shifty looking cricket. That got me to thinking about childhood fishing trips, the smell of the outboard motor, the marina, being fascinated at the critters in the bait bucket. Each smell was unique, and seem to change over time.
The part of Texas I live in now has few pine trees compared to the piney woods of east Texas, and west Louisiana were I spent my earliest years. I have three pine trees that have managed to survive at my front gate. I was tending to the cows the other day and heard a familiar faint roar above my head. It was the sound of wind through those three pine trees. I hunted squirrels as a child in Louisiana, the wind sound reminded me of those tough windy days sitting under a big pine tree.
I'm sure smells and sounds can trigger both good and bad memories, but the ones from a care free youth are the ones that take me back.
The part of Texas I live in now has few pine trees compared to the piney woods of east Texas, and west Louisiana were I spent my earliest years. I have three pine trees that have managed to survive at my front gate. I was tending to the cows the other day and heard a familiar faint roar above my head. It was the sound of wind through those three pine trees. I hunted squirrels as a child in Louisiana, the wind sound reminded me of those tough windy days sitting under a big pine tree.
I'm sure smells and sounds can trigger both good and bad memories, but the ones from a care free youth are the ones that take me back.
simmering on the
