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speakup

Living out in the country has its good points. The stars at night are incredible and you can blast your stereo as loud as you want and nobody complains.

But living out in the country isn't all sunshine and roses. Particularly roses.

I walked outside the other day and was struck full in the face by a distinctive odour that, growing up in the city, I didn't encounter often. One of my neighbours was preparing his fields for planting. The old fashioned way.

Now, I'm no stranger to the smell of manure. I've been in barns. I've been to livestock fairs.

But, I have learned, there is manure and then there's ... whatever this stuff was.

I don't know which neighbour it was who was doing his fields. It was a windy day, so for all I know, this stench had floated over from miles away. It certainly had legs, I can tell you that.

And since I grew up in the city, I can't do what some of my farmer friends can do, just take a sniff, savour it like fine wine, and identify exactly what animal it comes from. My buddy Jack can do that. "That's cow manure," he'll say. "Probably Jerseys, although it could be a mixed herd."

I guess if you work with animals all the time, you don't even notice it. Jack claims he loves the smell of manure, that it's comforting to him and those times he goes away from the farm he misses it. He spent a week once in Toronto and doesn't talk about seeing the CN Tower or going to a Maple Leafs game. He will, however, go on endlessly about how badly the city reeked.

When our kids were little, we went on a holiday in the car and along the way, we came to a town well known for its pulp and paper industry. It was a lovely summer's day, so I told the kids they should roll their windows all the way down and breathe the sweet summer air ...

Well.

About a mile away from the mill, I was watching in the mirror and actually saw the effect as the first few wisps of Eau de Pulp Mill trickled into my older daughter's nose. She frowned and looked accusingly at me.

Another few hundred yards and the car actually slowed as it encountered a solid wall of that distinctive atmospheric flavour cast out by a pulp mill. My daughter's frown turned to a grimace of disgust as she fumbled with her window crank, trying desperately not to breathe, then gagged and choked as the funk surrounded and enveloped her.

I know that if we lived in that town, chances are that bouquet wouldn't have the same effect. I'd take the smell of a pulp mill any day over what comes wafting out of those soap stores in the mall.

What I smelled when I walked out my door that morning was natural. It was the scent of spring on the farm, the air of new beginnings. From that hideous aroma, life will spring forth to feed our family. Rather than recoil from it, I should embrace it, treasure it, breathe deeply and celebrate it.

Yeah, maybe some other day. I ran back inside the house and didn't emerge till the weekend, and only then because my wife wanted to get the garden ready.

She'd been to the garden store and had a couple of bags in the trunk.

"We'll mix this into the soil," she said. "It's all natural."

She didn't have to tell me. I have a nose.

Nils Ling is a syndicated columnist and author, and doesn't smell too bad as far as he knows. More writings from Nils can be found on the internet at http://truthsandhalftruths.typepad.com