Leaves

October 16, 2018

Riding my bike slowly along the street, I inhaled deeply the pungent aroma of burning leaves. They lay in long rows on either side of the street, smoldering in the afternoon sun while my grandfather tended his side with rake in hand, ever-present fedora on his head, cigarette dangling from his lips. If you looked up and down the street, you would see half a dozen men standing at the curb, leaning on rakes while they watched the leaves burn. My grandfather was small in stature, but big of heart. Long before my time during the Great Depression, he took care of his neighbors who were out of work. As a Linotype operator for the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle, his job was steady and as secure as it could be in those days. 

I suppose it’s necessary that governments have banned the burning of the leaves in the fall. Air quality and all that. According to the ones who make such decisions, burning the leaves is bad for our health, but I wonder how much healthier of spirit we might be if we could once more breathe deeply that satisfying aroma. The pundits keep telling us our air quality is getting worse. If true, maybe we were better off before the bans went into effect. I know that every once in awhile, some renegade touches match to leaves. The breezes carry the telltale sign to my nose; I close my eyes, am carried back to an autumn day more than sixty years ago, and smile as I see my grandfather leaning on his rake, slowly turning the row as the smoke of the leaves mingles with that of his cigarette, and curls lazily around his head. I feel sorry for kids today who have never smelled that peculiar aroma, whose memories will be diminished without them even knowing it. Don’t tell anyone, but maybe tomorrow or the day after, I’ll rake a few leaves into a small pile in the back yard and light it just to inhale that delightful fragrance once more. And with a smile in my heart, I’ll think of my grandfather once more.