The Last Leaf: A Childhood Memory of Raking and Jumping
The sun’s rays offered a great warmth to my cheek as I began my walk along Frog Leg Creek. It had been many years since I eased my feet along the path I had run so swiftly as a boy. The water in the creek churned up a froth as it swirled over the rocks, aiming its strength southward.
A large brown leaf fell with a thump upon my head. Perhaps it wasn’t quite a thump—more like a quick poke. As I picked it up and examined its stem and structure, my mind glided across its smooth surface back to childhood. I was watching a young boy in a blue jacket, pumpkin-colored shirt, and blue britches, swinging a rake above his head. A voice rang through my head: “The leaves are already on the ground; you don’t have to knock more from the trees.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I returned to my task of making the largest pile of leaves in the history of our neighborhood. Beneath that oak tree—which must have seen Sherman pass on his way to burn Atlanta—the leaves seemed to gather in an endless volume that filled my afternoons as I worked to collect them.
The only real advantage of the adventure was the chance to take a running jump and land in the midst of the pile, of course sending the leaves flying through the air and scattering them across that section of the yard once again. It was worth it, though. The freedom of flight and the softness of the landing somehow made all the hours of raking and piling worthwhile. There was usually a small payment at the end from the neighbors who owned the big tree. I think I got ten dollars.
I forget how many bags the tree usually produced, but I remember once stretching enough bags across the yard to spell “Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas,” using one bag for each letter and still having that many left over.
Sadly, my desire to rake waned after my body weight no longer allowed a satisfactory soft landing in the pile. By then the falling leaves brought more dread than enthusiasm, although I never lost my admiration for that tree or for looking at the fall colors as they turned. When I moved into my latest home, it had no deciduous trees. All I have planted are evergreens, and if I keep it that way I will never miss raking another leaf. They are beautiful when they are someone else’s—or simply bringing color to the countryside.
I released the leaf I held in my hand and watched it fall, swinging back and forth as it drifted to the ground. As I walked away, I looked at the trees and thought how beautiful they are. I wished there was a big pile I could jump into, but I was glad to know it was not my job to rake them.
Read more of Randall’s writings in his books available at our Store.
