Yesterday I spent the better part of the afternoon outside. What I was doing was not as enjoyable as a good, long hike in the autumn woods with the crunch of leaves beneath my feet. There was the crunch of leaves, but I was raking them and moving them. In my small city, we can rake the leaves to the curb for pickup by the city. It’s nice to be able to do put the leaves at the curb instead of bagging them. That is one of the reasons I enjoy living in the City of Fairfax.
But I remember the time in which the cool Fall air would be mixed with the rich smell of burning leaves. In the Fall, in towns where I grew up, small piles of leaves would dot the yards. Those small piles were often burned in place by the property owner. Or the leaves might have been swept to the curb or edge of the street to be burned. Sometimes a brick bbq pit would be used as a leaf furnace. Every yard had a least one, round, burn circle somewhere in the back. But those days are behind us, and for good reason. The smoke from the many piles of leaves, especially as towns grew and suburbs sprawled, became a choking haze over the houses and the city. The Fall air is cleaner now, and I do not miss the times of dense smoke. But I can remember the sights and the rich, sweet smell that rose up from the fires of our small piles of leaves and fallen twigs.
They were like camp fires. We would gather around the pile and watch as the tongues of flame crept through its depth. We would then stand guard to make sure the fire did not go beyond the pile of leaves and its burn circle. There was always a bucket of water at hand in case the grass began to burn, and maybe a hose if one was available. It was a family event. My parents or my grandmother would be around, and my brother and my cousins and I would poke at the small fire and stare into its flame. We would talk about our lives and dream aloud of our future. It was a time together.
The finest picture I have seen of this is the one by John McCutcheon which he drew in 1907 for the Chicago Tribune. A young boy stands and stares into the smoke while his grandfather relates a tale of years gone by. The language has fallen into disuse, but I believe the sentiments expressed are strong and valuable and worthy of remembering.
There were people who lived on these lands long before the Europeans came. They and their children held the land as sacred. They knew and kept the value of family. They respected the people that had lived on the land before them and who had passed forward the land rich with life. These people also looked with hope into their future.
John McCutcheon’s cartoon and text are no longer published. But each year about this time after I have been raking and preparing the garden with an eye to Spring, I take out my yellowed copy of the art with its history and read it again. And I thank all of the people that lived on this land before and who worked to care for the land and the water and the air so that it might remain a place of beauty. It is a place to remember.
The story of John McCutcheon’s art titled “Injun Summer” can be found at http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/politics/chi-chicagodays-injunsummer-story-story.html