I was out raking today. Every time, and I mean every time I go raking, I have one of my strongest sense memories. It’s an odd one, too. And I really can’t explain why it’s so strong, because there is really no emotion connected to it.

I have several sense memories, usually a couple a week that are strongly linked to emotions or important moments. There is a perfume that always makes me think of my ex-mother-in-law. The smell of bacon, smoke and the slight undercurrent of urine give me a strong memory of my paternal grandfather. It’s odd how often strange mix hits me. Often in restaurant restrooms. Weird.

Songs, places, scents, temperatures: there is a specific kind of day —September, October— just in the mid sixties, sunny, crisp breeze, a few leaves in the air, that make me want to put on some football pads and slip in my mind-flavored mouth guard. It makes my blood quicken and my mind slow down. Nostalgia on steroids.

But the raking… Whenever I rake I think of Bernard Cornwell’s Stonehenge. And without emotion. Just a strong sense of place and sound.

About five years ago, when we were living in our old house, I raked at least twice a week one autumn. And every time I listened to Stonehenge on my iPod. There was nothing special about the raking. I don’t think anything especially memorable about the book. I guess it’s just one of those odd things that made some sort of intrinsic and important connection whose cause might go unsolved forever.