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Childhood memories of fall do not leave
Published November 5, 2009
“Leaves are floating softly down; Some are red and some are brown. The wind goes swish through the air; And when you look back, there are no leaves there.”
Although unknown, the author of the poem succinctly portrays a portion of the autumnal sequence each year.
With that, I am reminded of the wondrous artistry and creativity of the Creator.
Each year leaves, once filled with chlorophyll, depending on the tree and weather, inexorably change from green to vibrant yellow, orange, red and brown, or a combination thereof.
Well do I remember in the second-grade class of Ms. Pfeiffer, when I donned sweater, hat and mittens to protect against New England’s chilly fall winds, as she prepared our class for a short nature walk to collect the colorful fallen leaves.
We excitedly descended the time-worn gray granite steps leading out of the cavernous halls of the 19th century, two-story, red brick Lincoln School, at the corner of Crescent and Otis streets, in Wakefield, Mass.
In single file, like colorful penguins, we waddled behind Ms. Pfeiffer across the school’s expansive front yard.
Reaching Crescent Street, we turned right and shuffled through the scattered piles of maple, oak, chestnut, ash, birch and beech leaves covering the sidewalk like a patchwork quilt.
Turning right on Eaton Street, we made our way towards Pleasant Street, occasionally stumbling on the slabs of sidewalk buckled as though struck by a miniature earthquake.
Actually, it was the work of tree roots spreading forth from the mighty sentinels of time.
Encouraged to find the most colorful leaves, each student snatched up those he or she thought worthy of taking back to class.
My personal favorite was the Acer macrophyllum (a big leaf maple), whose leaves were the size of hand-held fans.
Clutching our prized treasures in mittened hands, we continued on Pleasant Street back to Otis Street, back on to the school’s front yard.
Our odyssey complete, we gleefully returned to our warm classrooms.
There, we identified and glued the leaves to sheets of colored construction paper.
Proudly we carried them home.
An occasional journey to Brattleboro, Vt., provided yet another opportunity to observe the colorful splendor of one of the Creator’s natural, leaf-covered canvases.
In conclusion, allow me some literary license, with Joyce Kilmer’s poem,“Trees.”
Thus, I offer “Leaves.”
“I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as leaves.
Like colorful wings do they wave
Joyfully in breezes each passing day.
They flutter before their creator God,
Turning upward in worshipful nod.
Leaves in summer green,
A nest of robins might screen.
Then, after an explosion of color boundless
Flutter to earth in death soundless.
Alas, poems are made by buffoons like me,
But only God can make leaves.”
George Jones is a staff writer for The Sand Mountain Reporter. His e-mail address is boaz(at)sandmountainreporter.com.
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