"These are a few of my many smells"

I remember stepping off the plane a little less than three months ago and making an observation that Iraq smelled like benzene. I’d like to recant my statement about that odor and replace it with one more fitting: Iraq smells like garbage. More specifically, it smells like burning garbage. This could be due to the fact that Iraqi’s burn their trash. Due to the lack of a decent waste disposal system, this is pretty much their only option for getting rid of their garbage. Not a day goes by that you can’t see multiple pyres of black smoke rising from the horizon as residents of B-town put a match to their refuse. And it stinks. We’re not talking the semi-familiar smell of burning leaves or aroma of a brush fire; both smells far more inviting than the stench that assaults your nose here. Instead, it just downright reeks. This morning’s “smell of the day” was the acrid tang of burning tires. The air was thick with the stink thanks to the high humidity and lack of a breeze, which helped to keep the smell lingering around for most of the early morning hours. And don’t look for relief from the stench inside your trailer or in a building. The A/C units smell like dirt as they can’t clean the filters often enough to rid them of their dusty odor (hey, as long as it’s a cold odor, I’m more than happy to suffer through the smell). Its days like this that make me miss being outside in the fresh air back home.

I know that Dallas doesn’t have the cleanest air on the planet because it is a major city and all, but when compared to Baghdad, the air of Texas is a gazillion times better. I miss the smell of wisteria and Bradford Pear blossoms in the spring. I miss the smell of water from White Rock Lake when I use to run or bike around it’s shores. I even miss the fishy smell of Cedar Creek Lake that my friend Jeff and I would troll to see who was the best bass angler (I’d say it was me, but most of the time it was Dr. Jones who schooled us both). There is a park that I use to frequent with my mountain bike up in McKinney that would turn red with Indian Paint Brushes in late February. As you would climb out of the tree lined creek bed onto the old abandoned air field, the fragrance from the flowers would almost knock you off your bike. I miss those smells. Now the only reprieve I get from the reek of this place is when I’m walking by the mess hall and catch a whiff of the meal of the day. Is that curry chicken or meatloaf?

By the way, the title of this blog is a from a Dead Milkmen song. Thanks goes out to my brother for keeping me alive with music that allows me to be inspired to write these off the wall observations.