My olfactory capacities have always been keen. The moment I enter someone’s home, I can tell if they have a pet. I can tell with just a whiff of a dish if it has been seasoned properly, and based upon those telling odors, I know if it will satisfy my palate. My nose will separate the perfumes from your local Walgreens or Walmart from those with truly complex notes, some of which I like and some I don’t. Some flowers, of course, are delightful to smell, but others, even in the most lavish arrangements, can become too much. I love a single rose; a dozen or more just becomes toxic. And please don’t get me started on the all the artificial smells they put in everything, from garbage bags to hand sanitizers. There should a law against Febreze, particularly in the limousines you hire to get to and from the airport. What would make a driver think that smell would be pleasing, even if its purpose is to cover his own odor. I do like, though, my ability to sniff out danger: a gas leak, a fire, chemical contaminants. And I like smelling my husband when he comes home. I can tell if he’s been through a stressful meeting, what he’s had for lunch, and whether he has been with her. Sensing her on him, I simply retire to my bedroom without a word and light my candles, the ones whose aromas I love. When there, I just breathe, breathe their smells in.

Ronald J. Pelias spent most of his career writing books, e.g., If the Truth Be Told  (Brill Publications), The Creative Qualitative Researcher (Routledge), and Lessons on Aging and Dying (Routledge) that call upon the literary as a research strategy. Now he just writes for the pleasures and frustrations of putting words to the page.