Sunday, November 3, 2013

'Tis the Season

of Maple Leaves

A cold front blew the golden leaves off of the trees.  
The branches of the maple trees dark against the sky. 
The branches of other maple trees are bare against the sky.  
Our maple is a silver maple.  (A lesser maple.)
Its leaves yellowing, curling, most still clinging to the branches and some still stubbornly green.  
What leaves have fallen are curled, mixed with sticks, not the sort of leaves that beg to be piled and jumped into. 
So we rake the golden drifts that have blown into our drive way from across the street, down the alley, all across our neighborhood and pile then in our yard. 

Ivory and Sylvan laugh and shriek and jump into the pile and toss leaves into the air.
They run back and forth bringing more leaves by the arm full, the wagon full, balanced on the rakes.

Their cheeks flush and eyes shine. 
I try to remember the last time I heard this much laughter and marvel at the simplicity of this pleasure. 

of Pumpkins 

After dinner we finally pull the pumpkins onto the table. 
Sylvan and Ivory and I picked them out a week ago.  They have been shuffled around the house, colored on, grouped and regrouped waiting for an evening when Adam was home too. 
Ivory and Sylvan draw faces and we trace their lines with knives.  The seeds toast in the oven. 

Adam blows out the candles while the rest of us are cuddled up in bed reading bed time books. 

of Halloween

"Mama get my cheese so Ivory can eat me!!"  Sylvan can barely contain himself while I unbuckle him from his car seat.  I manage to slow them to snap one picture and they are off to join the hoard of neighborhood kids at a potluck that has long since become tradition. 

As the light fades a hoard of children takes over our neighborhood. 

of the Festival of the Dead

Our silver maple has shed its leaves.  
It stands just as bare as those other maples that once were gold. 
The pumpkins sit unlit next to the front door.
It is brisk, but I shoo the kids outside.
We have passed from one month to the next. 
One season to the next.  

We make our way down town for our favorite parade of the year.  
It is the Festival of the Dead. 

Black and white, trumpets and drums, political and intensely private motivations, the living impersonating the dead - move down the street - stepping solemnly or dancing.

The skeletons of trees stand against the sky.  It is as much a celebration of the season as of life and living and all those that have lived and are remembered.

1 comment:

  1. Into the leaves! I am thinking of the HUGE piles of leaves at Oakdale and the way you grandchildren raked, jumped in the leaves, packed leaves into big barrels. And my children who did the same.