When I was a very small girl, I remember how exciting the changes in the seasons felt and how I recognized just when the seasons started to give up their grasp and prepare to move on. In the very late summer when the evenings had begun to cool, the winged termites would hatch in the nearby woods and my sisters and friends and I would make a contest of batting them from the air and then counting our captures. There were no prizes awarded for this game, it was simply the joy of running and chasing and laughing. We never tired of the game and would run until we were called in for dinner. My mother would complain that we were dirty, and sweaty and stank. Once I made my youngest sister sit still while I sniffed and smelled all around her to see what Mother was talking about. All I could smell was her five year old sweaty body from play, there was the scent of the dried grasses we had played in and the smell of earth on her hands and elbows and knees. I was pretty sure there was something very wrong with Mother's nose.