Road construction has a potent and memorable smell, and each time I get a whiff of blacktop I am taken back to the summers of my childhood. Riding around town on my purple bike with the banana seat, I would often run into the odor of freshly poured road.
On Saturday mornings the aroma of freshly cut grass permeated the air. The grassy fragrance would mix with alfalfa and seep into my clothes as I laid on the lawn in my front yard, looking for shooting stars.
In the evenings I occasionally ventured into the canyon, whether with family or friends. I would slowly toast my marshmallow to perfection and then proceed to stick it directly into the flames until the sugar became a delicious mix of melty marshmallow and a crispy brown-black shell.
A few days ago, my son roasted marshmallows with friends in a backyard. He put his clothes in the wash.
They smelled like campfire.
