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The smell of my home shop, is it odd?

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  • #31
    Originally posted by cuslog
    I've been doing some work on my sawmill lately.
    Been milling up some Western Red Cedar, jeez I like that smell.
    Came in the house after a day of milling that, got my arm and leather watchband up around my nose, got a whiff, smelled of sweat, and Cedar sawdust . Thought to myself "jeez, I stink" then changed my mind "No, I actually like that, that smells like good old fashioned honest, WORK".
    I love the smell when you make the 1st cut on a log & open it up, nothing like it! I used to have a Mobile Dimension Mill. Hard work & Great Satisfaction because at day;s end you could see everything you accomplished. Really miss that!


    • #32
      Another one! The smell of bacon in the morning. Love the smell of honey maple bacon in the morning!


      • #33
        Having grown up on farm I miss the smell of freshly turned earth. But mostly I miss the smell of harvesting corn. The smell of the crushed corn stalks and the smell of the hot corn coming out of the grain dryer. These days I'll often walk out to the shop before I go to bed to check on things. I realize now that I often stop and take a deep breath to take in all the smells.
        Central Ohio, USA


        • #34
          Originally posted by Ohio Mike
          Having grown up on farm I miss the smell of freshly turned earth. But mostly I miss the smell of harvesting corn. The smell of the crushed corn stalks and the smell of the hot corn coming out of the grain dryer. These days I'll often walk out to the shop before I go to bed to check on things. I realize now that I often stop and take a deep breath to take in all the smells.

          So many favorite things in this thread! Along with corn driers I love the smell of fresh cut hay/grass.

          Many of my friends laugh or make fun because I smell just about everything. Any time I open a new (anything) I always smell it. They ask why I smell everything, I say because everything smells different and I like smells. Many times the smell of something will be a tell tale of whats wrong with it.


          • #35
            Call me peculiar, but I like the smell of a barnyard, especially where horses and mules reside.
            A little dab behind each ear..., hmmm!

            Now hog $hit..., that's a different matter.

            If you really want to give your shop a unique smell, just clean some items with Berryman's Parts Cleaner. That odor will last for years.
            I kinda like it. odd chemical smell. Causes cancer in California though.
            Last edited by lynnl; 05-27-2012, 11:39 AM.
            Lynn (Huntsville, AL)


            • #36
              My oldest daughter who is 27 now still describes certain things (happily) as "Dad smells." As our first kid, when she was little she was always hanging out in my shed/shop while I worked, helping out, trying to make stuff or just talking. Certain things like the smell of oily rags and grease seem to provoke instant memories of those times. Great times.

              And as some of you noted, that can go both ways, provoking very bad memories as well. While I have thankfully never experienced any such childhood abuse myself, the mentions made of experiences suffered by some our friends here reminded me of this podcast I heard a while back. This was one of the most gripping things I had heard in a very long time:


              non-audio print (somewhat more graphic) version here:


              The authors resilience is inspiring.
              Last edited by alanganes; 05-27-2012, 11:56 AM.


              • #37
                Fresh cut watermelon or cantaloupe. Fresh cut grass when riding the motorcycle. The ocean in the AM. But right now my favorite is Brownies, the wife just finished a great big pan.



                • #38
                  Slightly off topic, but mentions smells on a motorcycle:

                  Season of the Bike
                  by Dave Harlots (Found on the internet)

                  There is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle. Cold on a motorcycle is like being beaten with cold hammers while being kicked with cold boots, a bone bruising cold. The wind's big hands squeeze the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October rain, the drops don't even feel like water. They feel like shards of bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face. I expect to arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but that's just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway speeds.

                  Despite this, it's hard to give up my motorcycle in the fall and I rush to get it on the road again in the spring; lapses of sanity like this are common among motorcyclists. When you let a motorcycle into your life you're changed forever. The letters "MC" are stamped on your driver's license right next to your sex and height as if "motorcycle" was just another of your physical characteristics, or maybe a mental condition.

                  But when warm weather finally does come around all those cold snaps and rainstorms are paid in full because a motorcycle summer is worth any price. A motorcycle is not just a two-wheeled car; the difference between driving a car and climbing onto a motorcycle is the difference between watching TV and actually living your life. We spend all our time sealed in boxes and cars are just the rolling boxes that shuffle us languidly from home-box to work-box to store-box and back, the whole time entombed in stale air, temperature regulated, sound insulated, and smelling of carpets.

                  On a motorcycle I know I'm alive. When I ride, even the familiar seems strange and glorious. The air has weight and substance as I push through it and its touch is as intimate as water to a swimmer. I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm spokes of sunlight that fall through them. I can see everything in a sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than PanaVision and higher than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard.

                  Sometimes I even hear music. It's like hearing phantom telephones in the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of the wind's roar. But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock 'n roll, dark orchestras, women's voices, all hidden in the air and released by speed.

                  At 30 miles an hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid. All the individual tree-smells and flower-smells and grass-smells flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony. Sometimes the smells evoke memories so strongly that it's as though the past hangs invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of rumbling time machines to unlock it.

                  A ride on a summer afternoon can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my brain, a systems check for my soul. It tears smiles out of me: a minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb, but now, on two wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face, billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane. Transportation is only a secondary function. A motorcycle is a joy machine. It's a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. It's light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; it's a conduit of grace, it's a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy.

                  I still think of myself as a motorcycle amateur, but by now I've had a handful of bikes over a half dozen years and slept under my share of bridges. I wouldn't trade one second of either the good times or the misery. Learning to ride was one of the best things I've done.

                  Cars lie to us and tell us we're safe, powerful, and in control. The air-conditioning fans murmur empty assurances and whisper, "Sleep, sleep." Motorcycles tell us a more useful truth: we are small and exposed, and probably moving too fast for our own good, but that's no reason not to enjoy every minute of the ride.


                  • #39
                    The last post about motorcycles bring baxk a smell I love. Golden Specro! I raced motocross pretty serious in the mid to late '70s & always used this 2 stroke oil. Great smell!


                    • #40
                      Speaking of bikes, Riding an ATV along back country roads at a slow "Put-Put" pace in late spring/early summer when all the blossoms were comming out was a fragrance not forgotten.
                      At times i would drive through a "Zone" where the breeze was just right, and the smells were very strong, beautiful!!


                      • #41

                        Mike Folks

                        That was a great post. Glad someone can put into words what it's like to ride. I started way too late (50).



                        • #42
                          I agree. I'm not a motorcycle person, but that is a very well written article. The writer is obviously a professional, ..or should be, if not.
                          Lynn (Huntsville, AL)


                          • #43
                            I used to ride big motorcycles, now I'm down to a 50cc Sukuki scooter although this thing as a Blast! 27 MPH flat out but at 22-25 you can barely hear it run & the smells out here in the country are fantastic.


                            • #44
                              2 cycle oil!

                              Riding down the snowmobile trail I always knew when I was gaining on someone by the sweet sweet smell of a 2 cycle. I could even tell what kind of machine was ahead of me before I could see it by the different smells they all had.

                              I have saved some old time racing 2 cycle oil that smells just like bubble gum! Every now and then I will dump a few tablespoons in the leaf blower just to get the smell.


                              • #45
                                I live in a city that has grown tremendously since I was born there. It has changed not only in size but in culture over my 59 years of life here. As a child, my parents didn't have much in the way of money. Mom took care of the house, my sister and I, while Dad put food on the table by delivering newspapers early in the morning before his regular job as a carpenter. After work and on weekends he would make repairs and improvements to the house, work on the car, initially an only Model A Ford and alter a '51 Ford, and take care of the outdoor chores. All that work brought in barely enough to make ends meet so our leisure experiences were limited to drives in the car, watching planes take off and land at the airport, an occasional fishing expedition or plinking with a .22. I was blessed to be able to accompany my Dad sometimes on his early morning paper delivery route and while he worked either at the house or on a weekend job. There as no A/C in those days, at least we didn't have it, so our olfactory sense was bombarded with the odors of all of those experiences. These days I ride my motorcycle, sometimes through the much larger city, other times out toward the less inhabited areas of the Everglades, enjoying the scents as a ride by a laundromat, Italian restaurant, hamburger joint, lumber yard, auto shop, smell of the tide, fresh cut grass, fresh turned earth, flowering plants and remember the great times as a child I spent with my poor in money but rich in love and experiences family.