Whenever I smell a balsam fir, I am transported back to my childhood. When we put the Christmas decorations away in the attic each year, some needles would find their way into the boxes. Come the next Christmas, Dad would boost me up to the attic panel in the hallway ceiling, I would set it aside in the attic, and he would boost me the rest of the way into the attic. I would then hand down the boxes to him. Somehow, sitting in the attic over the course of the year, those needles would infuse the air up there with their scent. (Taking down and putting away the decorations were the only times that the attic was entered during the year.) When I had handed down all of the boxes, Dad would act like he was going to leave me up there, eventually catching my legs as I lowered myself through the opening and holding me there while I replaced the panel.
