ther and I would just inhale with excitement. It was such a foreign smell and it was rich and all-pervasive. There really was no escape, even with the windows safely up. It had a bottom and a top register, like the noise of a musical instrument, but it varied depending on proximity. At first it was simply there; spreading from the droppings baking in the sun like so many cookies in a cheery oven. But as each barn drew nearer the smell became sharp--penetrating the back of the nose and the eyes with a satisfying sharpness that quickly faded as the car moved on toward the next farm. My father, like some maddened musician, sped up as the miles passed so that the smell built and declined with increasing speed--on and off like rapid notes in a jazz solo.
Then, about a mile from the lake, the smell was gone. Hot grass and trees and Queen Anne's Lace and the growing smell of water took over. We really were there and throughout the month, if we were mercilessly dragged away like little prisoners for a trip to town or a Sunday visit to church, the same rich smell of the cows would reliably welcome us back.
The smell is one I can linger over today. Slowing down, at least a little bit, when I pass a cow barn tends to annoy passengers in the car. I try to persuade people that it is a rich smell that deserves some respect or that it is a fundamental smell that we must appreciate in order to be fully human. I never add that it is also a heartbreaking smell that promises but cannot deliver what it once promised. They would never understand.
Everyone wonders how she or he would react to imminent danger. Movies, television, novels and, even more importantly, news stories offer examples of people who are faced with danger. Raging hurricanes, home intruders, fires, floods, and threats with guns are all part of popular entertainment and part of life. Yet few people outside a few danger spots really believe it will happen to them ...