From Under My Cowboy Hat: 2012-10-21

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Quilted Lawn

The leaves have blanketed the ground completely here at the Chicken Ranch. Our aged maple trees have shed much of their wonderful golden foliage. Walnut, hickory, apple, and cherry trees add their own fall contributions to the fields and lawn. The weight of recent rains, and the wind that accompanied them, have encouraged a mass migration of color here. Trees that were resplendent with crowns of varying hue are now increasingly skeletal, and bare before the autumn sky. The beauty that set each branch ablaze has fallen upon the ground below, and turned wood and lawn into a sea of color.

When the north wind blows, tides of leaves rise and fall with the wind. Like the ocean before a storm, gold capped waves of leaves fold upon a shore of green grass.The foliage lifts and rolls then settles again.

Tornadoes of swirling leaves spin around the house and barns in a kaleidoscope frenzy, then float again to the surface. Unfortunately, the leafy carpet will soon be swept away, not just by the wind, but by my hand also. I lament that I have to peel away this colored quilt that covers the lawn before me.

It’s not the raking I lament, for autumn labor is joyous to me. I am rewarded in my work this time of the year by air that is dry and crisp, a sky of varying blues, and a colored ticker tape parade of leaves thrown in all directions around me. I enjoy the company of the variety of birds that have lived farther north this summer, and have stopped by to rest on their journey south. The last butterflies of the season drift in and out among the marigolds and ice plants. The myriad waterfowl flying overhead honk and quack in chorus.

Working to remove the acre and a half of lawn leaves is not really laboring at all. For me, it is invigorating to be outdoors in autumn... for pleasure or for work. No, I hesitate to remove the leaves only because the ground is never as colorful and alive as it is when blanketed in fall splendor. But, remove them I must.

To allow the leaves to lie there all winter would destroy the grass below them. So, I herd them carefully to the ditch and mound them in a windrow, then light the fire that sets them aglow. I know that air quality advocates and those unfortunate souls with respiratory illnesses hate leaf burning. As an old Respiratory Therapist I am sympathetic to their concerns. And, I try never to burn wet leaves, which cause the greatest smoke and often an unpleasant odor.

I must admit, however, that I love the smell of dry leaves burning. To me, it conjures up thoughts of a warm hearth from the evening fires ahead, of hot chocolate with Buttershots and marshmallow cream, and of a good book read while the crackle of the fire provides the soundtrack to the story.

The warmth provided, as the leaves surrender to the flames, is a comfort against the evening chill. And like the lightning instigated fires that renew the prairie grasses, leaf burning rids my ditch of weeds and allows the new grass room to sprout in the spring. Yes, leaf burning is an old autumn ritual of mine.

I put my rake again into this coat of many colors, and in doing so, I say goodbye to the summer, and welcome the change of climate. I take the matches from my blue jean jacket pocket and light the row. One leaf, then two, then many begin to burn in a ring of fire that grows with each gust of wind. As the fire spreads, the smoke rises ethereally, as if from some ancient alter. And, I think to myself, there has been a sacrifice offered here. From the trees that tower over me, to the bushes along the fence rows, all have given over their magnificent coloration to paint, at least for a while, the ground at their feet.

I lean my back against a sycamore tree and gaze up at the blue and gray sky. I see clouds gathering in the west, and the chilly wind blows hard for a few gusty seconds. A solitary brown leaf bounces off the brim of my cowboy hat, down to the grass at my feet. “You’re late”, I think to myself, “the show is almost over.” As I reach to pick it up, the breeze carries it through the smoke, across the ditch, and into the north field. And there, unlike the countless others I have raked before it, it can rest unhindered... all the winter long.