The aroma of a campfire. The smell of burning oak or pine. There’s so much comfort in that scent.
Every story I’ve told or listen to rises like smoke from the embers of neglected memory when I smell a campfire. Stories like the one at a boy scout campout, in which our senior patrol leader told us that ghost story that ended on the corniest of notes. Somehow, our hero, upon being chased by a coffin astride a galloping horse, “took out a drop of Halls mentho lyptis, and that stopped the coughin.”
Or the truly haunting tale of a sole skeleton discovered aboard a sunken submarine, still tapping the rusted iron hull with a hammer. Or the cheers, skits or songs sung around the bright orange blaze.
Yes, there is so much comfort in the aroma of a campfire. I trust there always will be.
a bald eagle soars above
off the endangered species
registry at last