There is a certain smell, this time of year, that I rather love, even if I don't like winter. Or coldness. Or snow. Or all that is associated with a winter.
It smells like snow. When I say that to my English husband, he laughs. "How can you smell snow?" he says. You can.
It's not that it's going to snow here. Anytime soon, anyway. Or even where I come from, just now. It's just a smell of ... cold. It's going to get cold eventually, seriously cold in Chicago, and cold-ish here.
I smelt it the other day and the next day, was a cold, crisp one. Not autumnal cold, but winter cold. Enough that you'd better get that scarf out, and maybe the gloves.
It makes me nostalgic, somehow. For what? Other days, I guess. Not necessarily my childhood, which was nice and all, but no. My salad days, I guess you could call them (how appropriate for a gardener). When I was young and carefree and the day before Thanksgiving meant a night out with two days off, plus the weekend, after. A night out with friends. A night "on the tiles", as you might say.
And then the lead up to Christmas. Parties, kissing under the mistletoe, friends, fun, family.
This time of year always gets me. In a nice way, of course. Perhaps this year, just a bit more so than any other year.
For my USA friends, a very Happy Thanksgiving. Don't shop at Walmart on Black Friday. But have a great weekend!