Leafing Through Life

Autumn has come and the leaves are turning. Soon they will fall, and the wind will push, and the rake will pull them into piles. It has been a long time since I raked any leaves; I rely instead on my lawn mower and the breeze, which seems to blow through the yard without ceasing.  But now the obligations of being a grandfather call me to have a pile of leaves to jump into – not this year, but perhaps next year. There is a large cottonwood behind the barn with enough leaves for dozens of piles.

At our last house there was a giant cottonwood tree standing tall in the front yard; it was so big it dwarfed the one behind our barn. The leaves it dropped were so numerous they had to be raked and removed just so we could see out the first-floor windows of the house (I may be exaggerating).

When I was kid, very few people bagged their leaves; they burned them instead. People my age may be the last ones to have enjoyed the woodsy smell of burning leaves. I am sure we can have a discussion concerning burning leaves, bagging and burying them, collecting and composting or just letting them lay where they fall, but that’s another day.

I grew up in a time where kids raked leaves into rows to create a floor plan for a modest one-level home and played house in its small walls all afternoon. After supper the house was demolished and their father would burn the remains. He would stand there tending it, as if he were smoking his pipe, fussing with the dried leaves periodically while he enjoys the aroma and relaxation that goes with the task.

I don’t know when burning leaves fell out of favor, but I suspect it was about the same time burning barrels were outlawed. Most backyards had a barrel where the household garbage was burned, never completely, of course, as not everything burns. Like most others, ours was an old, rusty fifty-five gallon barrel that stood next to the utility pole between the garden and the alley.

I watched in horror one day as my favorite stuffed animal was thrown unceremoniously into the fire. I had been quite ill, and the theory was the big blue dog was harboring the black plague or some such thing.  Despite the pleadings of me and my compassionate older brother, the dog was burned alive in the barrel. 

I don’t remember the day Dad found out he could no longer use his barrel to burn the trash, but I know it bothered him. For one day I was watching him work the soil in the garden when his eyes rested on the decaying empty cylinder.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with this country, you can’t even burn your own garbage anymore,” he announced, leaving no room for disagreement or comment.

That was many years ago, but it seems like yesterday. Things change as fast as the seasons. I love this time of year, but I cannot help feeling a bit melancholy. Summer ends, the temperatures drop, and the sun goes down earlier every day.  

But it is also the time of year life begins to quiet and move indoors; I recognize the need to make some changes. Colorful sentences don’t get written and musical instruments don’t sound better without daily discipline. I guess you could say I am turning over a new leaf.