I still love the smell of semi-glossy paper some books are printed on, and, like Mets, mimeograph ink. AlsoL plasticene. I haven't smelled it for decades and I can't remember the scent, but I loved it. Especially the green. (Yes, I know and KNEW the green didn't really smell different, but the visual augmented the olifactory.) Micca, you can have the other colors if you like.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but there's the crisp and lofty smell of a hemlock forest after a good rain. The 'low tide' smell of salt and seaweed. Ancient books that hid in a dusty attic where late afternoon sunbeams filtered golden through the motes. Dank, concrete floored basement with its cobwebs and permanently shadowed places. There was the smell of my father's tools there, steel and oil, and sawdust.   In the yard, just poking up through the lawn every year were creamy pink peonies that had been planted by my grandmother as had every other flower at the house. She died before I was born, but these plants connected me to her in a way. There are many more smells, I'm sure, but I have to stop sometime.