Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.
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Know'st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom, Where the gold orange glows in the deep thicket's gloom, Where a wind ever soft from the blue heaven blows, And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose
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People retire and come to Myrtle Beach all the time; they find they can't make a living here so they want to buy a business. They cash in their 401(k), or their other retirement.
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But Thou that know'st Love above Intrest or lust Strew the Myrtle and Rose on this once belov'd Dust...
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The idea of strictly minding our own business is moldy rubbish. Who could be so selfish?
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