The first time I smelled a Carolina allspice in bloom was over thirty years ago in the overgrown yard of an abandoned farmstead. The property was near my home in a secluded location, and I often went there on summer walks.
It was an early spring evening. The last of the sun’s rays streamed low through the trees. Unmowed grass lapped at the farmhouse foundations like a weedy ocean, softening its forlorn and empty hulk. Vines climbed through open maws in the stone ruin. It had been decades since anyone had lived there.
Yet the most wonderful scent of ripe strawberry and pineapple filled the air. At first I couldn’t fathom where it was coming from. Apart from a few daffodils there was nothing left of the old garden.
