Leaves are not the enemy

The stunningly royal blue almost purple flowers of the wild asters decorating a small patch next to my fence are a tonic, a bright energizing invitation to go out and enjoy what the season brings. Autumn brings so much, with some aspects less appreciated than others.

Very soon, my spouse will don his yearly “Lord of the Leaf Blower” outfit and will happily frolic through the yard, moving mounds of leaves to the sidewalk’s edges, meticulously pursuing escapees, inspecting any corner where the miscreants may be hiding.  Leaves are the enemy.

Me?  I see things differently.

They clustered in little eddies, the wind blowing them here and there.  I reached for the broom.  Should I sweep them off the porch?   I stopped, sat down and watched the leaves dance around in the wind.  There were leaves from both the crab apple and its rootstock trees, the neighbor’s locust with its tiny spear-shaped leaves that find their way inside the house – into nooks and crannies that I didn’t know existed – and leaves from my much-loved dogwood.   All golden, hues of lost riches, they brought back memories of other days and other leaves.

I was just 18, a freshman at Syracuse University, and … I suddenly felt I could see through the eyes of that girl and hear through her ears.  I was on my way to Archibald Stadium.  I could hear the leaves crunch beneath my white sneakers, as the wind moved mounds of oak and maple leavings over the walkway.   I was wearing knee highs and a red and yellow pleated skirt with a heavy sweater that my grandmother had knit for me, especially chosen for my coming participation in what, even that day, was an organizational and mathematical wonder, placard cheering.

I was the happy sappy young woman who was living what, for her, could only be a dream.  I was going to college.  Things like this didn’t happen to me.  I could still feel the joy as my feet swirled through the leaves.  The anticipation and the color of the day remained bright.

In that old stadium where we sat on cold concrete no matter the weather, the freshman class was given the honor of being placard cheerers.  Each of us were given a stack of cardboard squares. Some had color on them, some letters and, others, marking.  Each seat was assigned a specific stack of cards in a specific order and when the leader told us to flip a card, the rest of the revelers in the stadium saw a picture or an exhortation.  It was fabulous.  It was fun. It was cold and it was 60 years ago.

There were other leaves covering the rise behind our house in April 1971. I was seven months pregnant with our first child and the leaves were there, left over from the fall.  I was out to prove that, despite my awkward pregnancy body,  I could do anything I wanted. Today, the popular word for this is hubris.  I raked those leaves, and the following day’s achiness was verification of the reason why I probably shouldn’t have undertaken this task.  When I told my mother, she was aghast, immediately counting all of the reasons why I shouldn’t have done this.   This, from a gal who birthed four children in five years without a washing machine.  “Raking leaves was nothing,” I countered. I lied, but then … hubris.  I had a lot to learn.

In that same backyard could be found a later year’s leaves raked into piles in which that firstborn toddler could jump, laughing at the delight of bright days and troubles so little that a pile of leaves could cure whatever little maladies and kerfuffle marred our mother and son days.

Today I collected some oak leaves.  I will spray them with gold paint, preserving them for an arrangement in my vestibule.  And, yes, I will eventually sweep the accumulated porch leaves into the garden, where they will blanket the perennials against the cold of the coming winter snows.

There will be a lot more leaves to move before winter sets in, but even in the midst of this task, there are times when a memory connects this yearly chore with people and experiences that transform the once-colorful leavings of summer into moments of joy.