The Sweetest Air

When I was a little girl, every time my parents and I returned to Tennessee after a vacation or visit to out-of-state relatives, daddy would roll down the window and say the same thing when we crossed the Warren County line. “Boy, don’t that air smell sweeter? Whooeee.”

That always confused the heck out of me. Sniff as hard as I could, it made no sense whatsoever because from any direction we came home there was generally a herd of cows right at the county line and the only thing I smelled was cow manure. “That stinks, daddy! That itn’t sweeter!” And he would laugh at my scrunched-up nose.

All these years later, I finally get it. Now that I live on the beach, there are times I think the only reason I run an errand off-island is because of the immense joy I get in returning home. The impact of that view as I cross the bridge has not lessened one iota in the past six weeks I’ve been living here full time. In fact, just yesterday afternoon as I returned from Ace Hardware in Gulf Breeze, I rolled down the window as I drove across the bridge to the island and said out loud, “Boy, don’t that air smell sweeter? Whooeee!”