It's no fun, this being sick during my favorite time of the year. I can see the Russian Olives--God bless the Russian Olives!––blooming outside and I know the air is slowly being filled by their sweet, buttery fragrance. Their leaves are the softest shade of green, an almost-not-green green, like green erased or bleached by the sun and the blossoms––so tiny––are a dusty yellow and could easily be overlooked if they didn't smell so unbelievably delicious. The Russian Olive is Idaho to me, Idaho at the height of my adolescence, Summer nights spent driving up and down Johnny Creek, skirting the foothills with my windows down breathing in that heavy perfume while listening to Poi Dog Pondering or Summertime as sung by Janis Joplin. I cannot miss the Russian Olives! I don't care if my nose refuses to cooperate. I will make it work! Come hell or high water, Duncan and I will be down by the lake tomorrow night, walking and breathing, caught entirely in the moment even as I'm revisiting years and years of my favorite Russian Olive memories. They are the Scent Track of my life.