In autumn, as the schoo l bus pull ed away from our yard, Heath er and I would r un to the hou se, throw aside our schoo l outfits for our worn out “work clothes” and head to th e back forty of our farm, wh er e there was an old wooden granary. We spent hours cleaning that gr anary, though no amount of scrubbing rid it of th e mu sk of decaying wood, barl ey chaff, mou se shit and the debris of swallow nests. If asked wh at we were up to, we’d mutter some thing about playing “pioneer,” th ough this was more of an expedien t explanation than an actual indicator of what we were doing. Together, but isolated — both of us immer sed in our own imag ined worlds — Heather and I staged and restaged the granar y, with rain—bloate d furniture, torn books and knick—knacks th at we found scattere d in th e rock pile behind th e dug— out or in the attic of th e barn . If we got hungry, we’d raid th e ripe garden for food, dodging made—up enemies — wild animals and equally wild sto rybook “Ind ians.” In autumn, th e mer e scent of what’s almost ineffable — dusk air tin ged with stubble fire, cut clover — places me back in that granary. I’m reading Anne l’ Green Gables, while Heath er has qui et conversations with her favourite doll, who m she aptly calls, “Dolly.” I still tease Heather about how she and Doll y bear a funn y resemblance — th ey share reddish, matted curls, limbs scuffed with mud and grass, a few freckles and chee ky grins.