Login

Balsam fir

I stood in front of the grocery store, a few days ago, my hand on the shopping cart, but not moving. I just absorbed the rich aroma of the wreaths suspended from triangular frames.

Smells trigger memories. Memories of visiting my grandmother’s kitchen, in a small town in Quebec, as she cooked lunch on her wood-burning kitchen stove. Memories of throwing hay bales on the back of the International stake-body truck on a hot summer day. Memories of sliding head-first through slick mud into a frog pond.

Full text available to premium subscribers only. Log in or Create an account.

Once you've created an account, you will be given a free 30-day subscription to the site where you can view all content unrestricted. After 30 days, you can extend your account by purchasing a subscription.

If you are already a print subscriber, click here to give us your contact information, and we will confirm your active subscription and give you a password to access the website.