"That aroma on my clothes takes me back farther back y'all We'd build ourselves a pile and light up a bonfire" (Demun Jones, Campfire Cologne). The smell on my shirt takes me back to the days of my youth. When I was young and knee high to a midget. Watchin' the sparks shoot to the sky, my family through the flames, listening to 'em all laugh like it was nothing. The smell of the smoke, the sound of the freight trains, each and every night.

We built our cabin in the spring of '07, and almost every weekend since was spent in the cabin. Sadly I no longer live at that property, where the fishing was superb, but every bonfire, was unforgettable. If I could I would not hesitate. Not even for a second. To go back. If that house ever went up for sale, no matter how much, I do everything I had to do to make enough money to buy that house back, and rebuild it to what it was, just the way I remember it. I go by that house now and mourn for the loss of the light of my youth, the loss of the good times, the loss of the most loyal dog a person could know, the loss of a cabin the entire family worked hard to build, the loss of the backyard where I caused trouble, and always got muddy, the loss of a home, a place that I'll never forget.

It's where I caught my first snakes, and learned to fish. It's where I shot a shotgun for the first time; It's where I almost drove a golf cart, backwards, into the pond, after running over mom's flower tree. It's where I learned to ride a bike. And through the flames of every bonfire bonfire I see the those times, that house, the cabin, the dog, the backyard, I smell the muck of the pond, and burnt rubber they remind me of the first place I called. Home.