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It would be an Indian summer in the old colonial farming community of Salmon Brook that year. I suppose it was fortunate I was blissfully unaware of what was to come. It was when the fields of the summer harvest lay bare that the unthinkable would happen. There would be the wet smell of fresh cut hay filling the air as well as the mingling aroma of tobacco fields laid bare of their crops. The large tobacco leaves would hang neatly from wooden poles to dry underneath white-sheeted tents. Tobacco, sweet and pungent, was a grown-up scent of intimacy and secret goings-on.
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