October 2019

There are some childhood memories that have morphed into lifetime pleasures. Growing up on Long Island’s south shore and living by the Great South Bay I still treasure the smell of salt air.  That memory is instilled in me even though I now reside in the upstate mountains of South Carolina, about 3/1/2 hours to the nearest thing close to salt air.  Why is this so vivid? I know the sense of smell has a lot to do with it, casting a strong sense of forever knowledge that a book can’t compete with. Occasionally, I will walk into an old farmhouse and immediately be taken back to my grandmother’s home.  It is an indescribable smell of familiarity.  I can’t explain it, a combination of old wood, maybe furniture polish and fresh air? Unseen ingredients known only to the olfactory factor. So, if “salt air” registers as #1, what’s my #2?  October smoke, of course.

Cerebral knowledge reminds me that our fireplace burned brightly to warm the corners of our home on December, January, and February evenings, yet, I don’t recall the smell of those indoor wood fires. My strongest sense of olfactory smoke memory comes in October.  There are three annual memories that stand out, all of them take place outdoors where the wood smoke mingles with fresh air, and spirited people.

The first, and probably most universal is the raking of autumn leaves and their eventual burning on a quiet windless afternoon. Just as the pile is almost diminished into black nothingness another rake full of dried debris is added to the pile.  At first nothing happens until a tell tale swirl of smoke rises and the fire begins again.  The ‘ceremony’ would go on for hours, until at last a few pieces of kindling, and wood branches would be set, then a few pieces of split wood, before settling down into the first campfire of autumn.  We didn’t have smore’s to snack on, but tin foil was readily available to wrap around a potato which was carefully placed  upon coals to ensure it’s roasting without burning. we called it ‘dinner’ If a hot dog and green stick was close by.  Dessert was a cored apple, baked to perfection (see directions for baking a potato).

Where the Connetquot River’s fresh water mingled with the salt (Twin Rivers, north of the arboretum) perch and trout were bountiful.  On any autumn afternoon our neighbor, Mr. Silberman, would stoke up his smoker and skillfully tend to scores of the catch. He shared the bounty with neighbors and friends. To this day, I love smoked fish, but nothing compares to the art and generosity of Mr. Silberman.

Wood smoke didn’t stop in Mr. Silberman’s smoker or even in our backyard.  It wafted onto the SHS campus as well.  Our annual homecoming football game was traditionally held on a Saturday afternoon in October.  The night before the big game, we held a pep rally where the SHS bleachers were filled to capacity with students, teachers, and families.  The Friday night tradition would start at dusk with announcements and greetings.  Then, the  Cheerleaders ensured our high spirits as they led us in cheers while leaping into the air, bending backwards so their hands could reach for their heels.  The football team players came onto the field greeted with roars of approval and knowledge we would be victorious.  But the main event was yet to be, the lighting of the bonfire.  I’m not talking campfire. I am talking “get the Fire Department ready and waiting” because the pile of wood had to be 20 feet tall. Did that really happen? Surely, this would never be tolerated.  But, indeed, it was.  Whether the final game was won or lost, mattered not.  

  By just being part of the magic, and smelling the wood smoke of October, we were the winners.