The Magic of Leaf Piles

Join me for a leisurely walk in the Heights in early November. Any neighborhood will do, but I’ve chosen Caroline Street since I’m familiar with the yards and houses.

We’re wandering into the past.

By now, there’ve been a few frosty nights, maybe even the threat of snow flurries. We’ve swapped our summer wardrobe for jackets, sweatshirts, wool sweaters, and depending on the decade, corduroy pants. The familiar swishing sound was made from the ridges of additional fiber called wales. Did they ever wear out? We only got rid of ours when the ridges wore down and became smooth.

Funny thing about corduroy. The material’s been used since the 18th century and made a comeback in the 1970s, but I can’t recall the last time I saw anyone wearing pants made from corduroy.

But, back to our ramble.

Some yards will be raked until there are few leaves on the dry lawns. Some may be ankle deep in fallen leaves, predominantly oak and maple. Many yards will boast tall piles of autumn color, ready for leaf bags (sadness), the mulch pile, or best of all, jumping children.

Our yard boasted a black walnut tree in the front corner, the last tree to produce tropical-looking summer leaves. By October, the walnuts have fallen and been claimed by squirrels and my brother. He considered the work of removing the green casing and the hard, oily shell worth the unique taste of the nuts. The squirrels had no difficulty reaching nutmeats, but left the sharp shells for us to step on or rake.

The backyard was our small orchard—two Mcintosh apples, two Bartlett pears, two Montmorency (sour) cherries, one Anjou (hard) pear, and a yellow cherry. I learned that the yellow cherry is a cross between Bing and Van, called Rainier after Mount Rainier, since it was developed at Washington State University in 1952. Ours were sweet and juicy, ready to eat when they blushed pink.

Fruit tree leaves were small, hardly worth raking, and never made a jumping pile. We were sent with rakes to collect the mushy, fallen fruit, instead, a disagreeable job that triggered whining and grumbling. Picking up soggy, yellow jacket-covered pears was the worst task.

Ah, but the middle yard behind the house. There autumn was captured in a small area. Three trees dumped leaves, and raking those was as much fun as work, since they made enormous piles for leaping afterward.

The sycamore maple had huge yellow leaves, three to seven inches across, easy to rake. The black locust dropped tiny golden leaves, and while the box elder maple had small leaves, they were plentiful for the resulting mountains.

We owned two garden rakes and one leaf rake, so competition was vocal trying to claim the easiest rake for the job.

Smoke from burning leaves drifted around the neighborhood in those days, adding a woodsy, sharp fragrance to autumn.

How to describe that unique, seasonal perfume? Earthy incense? Musky, sweet, acrid, roasted acorns?

The answer is easier than that.

Burning autumn leaves is the smell of home.

Enjoy your walk.