“It doesn’t smell,” I said confidently. I was lucky enough to be included in my friends’ annual Thanksgiving ritual last year. Three adults of which I was one, walked along a gravel trail with four children, a baby and a dog. We were foraging to make centrepieces and a wreath. My addition to these beautiful bouquets was larch. I love the way it looks, soft, gentle, somehow personifying a wise old man in my mind. At that time, I was right, it didn’t smell, but a few weeks later, my mind changed.
I was driving across the island heading to visit family and friends in Nova Scotia. The bubble had opened, and I was excited to fly the roost. We stopped near Gander, and found a pond. It was an uncharacteristically warm day, enough so that I jumped into the water. It was not uncharacteristically warm. “It’s so strange, I can smell citrus. Thats not what fall smells like.” To me, autumn’s aromas are decomposing leaves, somehow fresh and dry, cinnamon, cool air—whatever that smells like. Grapefruit, not so much. I scoured the low brush to find the source. I found it, larch, but it couldn’t be, it doesn’t smell. Well, I guess it does, a