Granted, while Fall in Iowa is
accompanied by leaves crunching underfoot, Fall in Washington is not quite the
same. In Washington, it rains, and the
leaves are often transformed into a soggy mess.
But despite the damp weather, some of my favorite Falls took place
there.
My grandparents had two huge
maple trees in their front yard, and every Fall, thousands of leaves would fall
from their sturdy limbs. The yard would
slowly fill. Higher and higher and
higher. My sisters and I would appear
with rakes that were twice our size, and we would rake up this wonderland of
leaves. We gathered a pile beneath one
of the maples, and carefully, we climbed a wobbly ladder propped up behind the
tree. Once in the tree, we would stand
looming over the pile. From our youthful
perspective, the pile of leaves appeared to be ten stories below us, and we had
to muster every inch of our courage we had to jump.
One,
Two,
Three!
We flew through the air and
landed with a crunch into the leaves. We
rolled out of the pile laughing, begging to do it again. And again and again and again. We soon had leaves in our hair, in our
clothes, and even in our underpants. But
we jumped out of that tree all afternoon, laughing with delight after ever
courageous leap.
I will never forget those
delightful Fall afternoons spent jumping.
However, the maple trees are now old, some of their branches have been
cut down, and our jumping spot has long since disappeared. All that exists now are the memories. Memories conjured up every time I walk
outside and hear Fall beneath my feet.
Crunch. Crunch.
Crunch.
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