Playing in the leaves

I loved playing in the leaves when I was a kid. We lived in the south, so autumn peaked later than it does in New Enlgand. Between Hallowe'en and Thanksgiving I would spend hours raking up piles of leaves, jumping in them, laying in them, smelling their earthy aroma, and feeling their crunch under my feet. I would collect prime specimens for art projects--ironing them between sheets of waxed paper, or placing paper on top of a leaf to do a crayon rubbing. And I would make my way down the side walk shuffling in the leaves, kicking them up in great swirls in my wake.

My kids loved playing in leaves, too. Often they would do that at Grandma's house b/c we didn't always live in places where leaves were abundant. Somewhere I have pictures of the girls buried in leaves, with only their faces showing, giggling and laughing.

I'm blessed with several mature trees around my house and the church here, and their leaves have been brilliant shades of gold before they fall to carpet the grass in brown and wrinkled "old age." Every week the landscaping company comes with its shredder and leaf blower; in their efficient way they make quick work of the blanket of leaves. But as I watched them go about their business last week, it made me a bit sad that no one had played in those leaves.