This evening I was doing some thinking and some remembering about autumn evenings. In the neighborhoods of my youth the smell of burning leaves was a part of what made autumn, autumn. Apple pie, pumpkins, indian corn, cider and donuts, and tart Johathan apples in my lunch sack or eaten with my Dad on the back steps on a Saturday morning while listening to Big Ten football chatter and fight songs on the radio fill my fall memories.
This evening I got to thinking about how political correctness has robbed us of the perfume of burning leaves. I googled it and found someone who has expressed my own heart so well.
One Caveat: I am a life-long teetotaler, otherwise I wholeheartedly concur with my friends sentiments and suggestions about how to deal with the missing memory of smoldering leaf fires.