After a dazzling Indian summer, I woke up this morning knowing that fall finally had arrived. It was still dark when the alarm went off, and I reached for my wool robe and fleece-lined slippers. The dog was curled up tight against the chill. Tonight the crickets are quiet, geese honk overhead, and I've put an extra blanket on the bed. It's time to switch to perfume that feels as warm as a cashmere sweater.

When I think of warm, soft, uncomplicated scents — scents warm and thick as cashmere — I think of amber, patchouli, and wood. Incense and leather can sometimes feel too cold or intellectual, depending on how they're treated. Scents loaded with coriander and other spices can be wonderful, but sometimes they feel cold to me, too, like iced tea or air-conditioned auto upholstery. Don't get me wrong, I love leather, incense, and spice in the winter, but when I want something fluffy and warm, I'm likely to reach past Donna Karan Black Cashmere, Chanel Cuir de Russie, and Yves Saint Laurent Nu for my decant of Annick Goutal Ambre Fétiche…

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Last week I sat outside a bar with a friend, enjoying one of the last warm evenings of the year. My friend works Saturday afternoons at a wine store, and he told me about how he helps people find the right bottle of wine. “I ask people what they like,” he said, “But it seems like they're always more articulate about what it is that they don't like.”

Right away I thought of how I once went into a perfume shop and told the sales person that whatever perfume he brought out, please make sure that it doesn't have vanilla, because I don't like vanilla. It was the early 1990s, and everywhere I went I was bombarded by Calvin Klein Obsession and detested it. In my mind at that time, Obsession equaled vanilla. Now I think back at the sales person and marvel at his ability to suggest anything given such lame guidance…

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A few weeks ago I was on the back deck of my father's house in Montana, tapping out a review of Dana Tabu on my laptop when my father leaned up against the deck's handrail. He still wore tall rubber boots from mucking out the horses' stalls and he held leather work gloves in one hand. “So, you're writing something about perfume?” he said.

My father used Old Spice soap on a rope, and although he didn't know it, his Oil of Olay sunscreen smelled like roses, but otherwise perfume was a foreign concept to him. When I told him that, yes, I tried to write something every week about perfume, he said, “Have I ever told you about that Peugeot I used to have?”

I was surprised. My dad has always driven big, usually old, pickup trucks…

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