The following is a translation of the Henshu Techo column from The Yomiuri Shimbun's Nov. 7 issue.
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In a book of collected short stories, I came across the following anecdote. One fine autumn day, when one could feel a gentle breeze, a college professor was visited at his home by a student who said at the entrance: "Your garden smells of an aromatic air freshener."
According to the story, a fragrant orange-colored olive tree, of which the student had no knowledge, was blooming in the garden. Whether this story is true or not is not in question here. Anyway, there is no other flower than the one of this plant that can so forcefully fill the air with its sweet scent. When I was a child, my classmate had one magnificent tree at his home.
As is often said, it seems a scent can give you a sense of nostalgia, and when I unexpectedly came across the aroma of a sweet tree by the roadside, I noticed I was visualizing my classmate's face among other things in my mind. But then I realized that did not happen this year, when I was reading a post in Hatsugen Komachi, the Yomiuri Online bulletin board.
It said, "The small, orange petals have fallen and are drifting toward the side of the road." When a typhoon landed at the end of September, they say a lot of the flowers of the fragrant orange-colored olive fell as soon as they opened. The aftereffects still linger as salty winds associated with the typhoon prevent leaves of the ginkgo tree from turning yellow.
There is a poem by Misuzu Kaneko (1903-1930) that makes one long for an ordinary autumn:
The scent of the fragrant olive fills the garden
Winds at the gate were discussing
whether they should come inside or not
(From "Fragrant Olive")
Let us hope the wind, next year, blows more modestly.
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