burning leaves

It’s been harvest time around here for a while and the farmers will begin preparing the ground for winter. Suburban grass farmers fertilize, verti-cut, and aerate. Pumpkins adorn the market here. Wicker ones, too. Football. Casserole warming Sunday afternoons. Shorter days perceptible. Darker clouds, drizzle, leaves colored proudly knocked down in glory. Leaf kicking on the sidewalk but none of the smoke we may remember from childhood when the men of the neighborhood burned the harvest of their yard raking.

That aroma is still clear, though. I remember the leaf burning time in Highland Gardens, Chester, Pennsylvania, in the “back field” usually on the bare dirt of second base, this time of year when we played our last innings and adjusted the strings on our shoulder pads for the coming season, scraped the dirt from our baseball cleats, a bit of polish, and linseed oil for our glove before placing it on the shelf. While the men burned leaves like triumphant farmers, and mothers rolled their eyes when we came indoors, reeking of smoke, while chicken a la king baked in the oven with a layer of breadcrumbs.