The combination didn’t last for long. Yet another storm front moved through the area, bringing with it high winds and golf ball-sized hail. It quickly passed, doing no damage in my neighborhood, but it postponed my afternoon walk.
A fragile mist hung in the air as I finally started up the road. Elevated humidity carried lingering odors with it, mostly in moist pockets settling in low spots. They reminded me of the months I had spent in the boonies of Vietnam, shielded from the elements by only a poncho liner and sheet of plastic. After living outdoors for so long, my senses became more acute. They stayed that way long after I returned to the States.
Once, Anne, Ray, Kathy and I were sitting outside by their pool. “It’s going to rain,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re smoking, Pard, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky,” Ray said.
Within five minutes, gentle rain began soaking the cement around the pool causing Ray, Anne and Kathy to stare at me, wide-eyed.
“I could smell it coming,” I explained.
I wasn’t lying. My sense of smell was more acute than others. After living many years now in heated and air conditioned houses, that particular talent has disappeared. Still, as I plodded up the blacktop through my neighborhood, the odors carried by the mist—someone’s septic tank, the fetid smell of damp earth and grass, a dead animal—brought back memories.
It was almost dark as I rounded the last bend and started up the gentle hill to my house. Shadows cast by a darkened sky and surrounding trees formed eerie patterns on the damp and broken asphalt road. A tiny crescent moon and one bright star shined dimly through an open spot in the thick layer of clouds. It was a night perfect for wispy ghosts playing in shadowy mists. The thought crossed my mind as I shut the front door behind me.
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