Bodystory

Sage brush, pine trees, forest fire smoke, and the knapweed and flowers called baby’s breath. Every time I return home, I soak in the warmth and smells of my childhood summers on my parent’s ranch. Not to say that the chill air, snow, and smells of burning snowmobile oil aren’t equally gratifying in my remembrance. But the summers were full of dogs barking, horses fighting through the fence or neighing to each other across the road, or to me for some food. I would spend my extra hours in the barn, filled with the stinging, fresh scent of alfalfa; building hay forts and taming barn cats or chasing my brothers and their friends as they avoided the little sister by running up the hills and climbing trees. At the end of the day, washing off hay and dust. Remembering, horse rides that ended in a downpour of rain. Not the moldy Seattle rain, but a clear and fresh storm that pounded and raised the dust. What a wonderful sensation: Soaked hair, warm and sticky clothes with the house just in sight at the bottom of the hill. The summer rain showers of a mostly—desert landscape. The landscape that cradled my every experience until adulthood.-Jessica