Austin has had a few honestly wintry days so far this season. Well, at least as far as central Texas can have wintry days. I've always preferred cooler weather over warmer and occasionally there are times when that preference hits straight to the heart.

Yesterday, on the drive home from work, I was juggling a number of things in my mind. I wanted to get home quickly to change clothes and go grocery shopping with a few friends. I wanted to finish and send off a revision on a newsletter for the Black Star Co-op membership to the other authors for review. I wanted to move closer to buying some replacement parts and upgrades for a laptop my sister gave me. I wanted to start...wanted to...what's that smell? What's that memory?

My first thought was to wonder if my car was malfunctioning. Normally when I sense diesel exhaust I briefly worry if something's gone wrong in my TDI. But this wasn't the normal Golf exhaust smell, this was more industrial. Directly in front of me was a converted heavy duty truck, the kind with the corrugated steel utility bed. We were crawling along at a fraction of the posted speed limit on 183, so I was less than 20 feet away.

I could see a plume of shimmering air shooting from the truck's tailpipe.

Ahh. There's the memory.

My family has traveled to Canada quite a few times to celebrate Christmas with my mother's relatives. Since the cold invigorates me, I enjoy taking walks outside, particularly in the bedroom communities and particularly at night. To me, there are few experiences as exhilarating as an immersion within the unique stillness present outside when the world is cold, dark, open and nearly every human being within a mile is warm, lit, and inside. It isn't merely the silence combined with the cold. A few nights ago, it dropped to the low 50's and because my ceiling fan was turned off, in between the cycles of the heater there were periods of cold silence. It isn't enough to hear the background white noise generated by your auditory system. It's got to have the dampening effect of a few feet of snow on every surface not horizontal and the soft artificial lighting of homes and street lights curtailed to very defined areas by a moon glow at the peak of intensity.

I quit smoking years ago, but those are the moments when I'll gladly take a cigarette, if only to make the clouds of my breath seem that much more existent.

Anyway, I was in Toronto the last time I visited for a Canadian Christmas. One night, after the parents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, sisters, and grandparent went to sleep, I went for a walk. The house wasn't far from King Street, an important road that carries traffic at all hours. I was perhaps 200 yards away when a delivery truck rumbled past and parked at the corner bar. Beyond the air stirred by the truck, there was no wind. The surrounding neighborhood was making the little sounds of a community going to bed and the diesel exhaust smell hung in the air, a line drawn on top of my intended path.

I wouldn't say it smelled pretty or even that it was a pleasant odor. But it had an unobtrusive honesty that merged effortlessly with the greater atmosphere. It complimented the chilly air. I couldn't have spent more than a few minutes like this, but I felt at ease and completely calm. It was winter.

Combined with the windy cold, the truck in front of me yesterday triggered that memory as surely as if someone had rewound time and played it again.

This Christmas, I'll be in Ottawa.

Damn, I love winter.