Yesterday, on my way back from a walk, I caught a whiff of manure from a passing truck. Turns out, the truck was turning into my neighbors’ driveway where for a couple of hours the lawn was aerated and fertilized.

As a result, I spent the day inhaling whiffs of the barnyard, a scent I associate more with the farm than the suburb. 

It wasn’t unpleasant, not after I got used to it. In fact, it made me think of afternoons spent interviewing farmers in Cambodia or Malawi or other places around the world, places where roosters crowed and pigs wallowed and shy children peeked at me from behind the leaves of a banana tree.

I miss those trips, the golden sunrises, the purple twilights, but I’m grateful that yesterday, for a few hours, a whiff of the barnyard brought them back to me.