Thanks, Margaret Renal, for your column today: "Raking Leaves on a Windy Day". It brought up a lot of sweet memories for me.
I grew up in a suburb of Philadelphia in the 1940’s. In the fall, I would help my dad rake up the leaves in both the front yard (maples) and the back yard (a huge weeping willow tree). In those days, a wide-spread custom was to rake the leaves into the street, into a big pile. Part of the joy was doing something with my dad, who was not a big one for a lot of father/son activities. They often involved work: washing the car on a summer Sunday afternoon, or raking up leaves in the autumn.
Then the kids would jump into the pile (just because it was fun to do; try not to hit your head on the curb), and then we would light them on fire and burn them. (In those days, we also burned our trash in a big burn barrel in the back yard). Sometimes the leaves were dry, and would burn quickly. Sometimes they were damp, and would burn slowly. But either way, there was a wonderful odor that lingered in the air (unless it was a windy day.) I still remember it from long ago.
On December 7,1941 (I was almost 6), in mid-afternoon, we were raking and then burning leaves. A neighbor ran out of his house and shouted out: “The Japs have attacked Pearl Harbor”.
WWII had begun for America. My dad signed up, and spent most of the next four years at war in the USNavy. I stayed home and raked the leaves by myself.
