Maple View
The more I look at this photo, the more it feels like I could tumble forward and be back home again. I can smell the leaves and feel the chill. I can make out the colors of a Kingsford charcoal bag on the porch. There’s the grill by the window. Maybe Dad was hoping for one last warm Sunday before storing it away in the shed.
The shed was an old chicken coop from the days that Maple View was a working farm. The original house was built in the 1800s and sat on just over a full acre in the Grand Rapids city limits. And so many trees! Five large maples, a wormy crab apple tree, blue spruce, lilac trees, and rows of tall Rose of Sharon.
As I grew older, the maples started to drop more and more branches after each storm. They were dying from the inside out. A few we cut down with the help of family: a grand production involving chainsaws, and much yelling from the patriarchs. In their prime, however, the leaves fell thick and steady.
Helping Dad rake leaves was great fun. Every fall, he would lash those pieces of plywood to the sides of the red trailer, and hook it to the back of his John Deere. I would ride in the trailer with the leaves as we motored around the yard to fill the trailer, and deposit the leaves in the garden behind the garage. Wielding dual rakes as double-scoops, we’d conquer the side yard, the front yard, back yard, and beyond.
Dad, a practiced and professional driver, would take careful turns with the trailer swaying back and forth. A Jack-of-most-trades, he would eventually affix a length of wire fence across the back to increase the volume of leaves that could be held in one trip.
After each wagonful, we would trundle carefully back around the garage, down the slope, where my Dad would back the trailer up and dump the leaves. At this point, I would fulfill my duty as kid cantilever, and tip the weight of the trailer, tumbling breathless with laughter into the soft bed of leaves, bringing the rest with me. It was part hayride, part ball pit.
I see that Dad tucked his big yellow work gloves over my hands for this picture. I’ll always think of him with well-worn gloves, tinkering in the garage, with the smell of engine oil and WFUR-FM on the radio.
Today my parents are at rest, and don’t need to worry about trees any longer, whether gone or dying. Raking leaves in the fall with my Dad is one of my favorite autumn memories, and some of the earliest fun I remember having as a kid. I’m thankful to have this photo, and the memories.
Thank you for reading. Darlene ChaniMaya is an only child processing the loss of her parents through words posted on the internet, and some photos too.
You can read more of her stories on grief here (‘cuz that’s life, baby).
You can also find her on Twitter, where she is typically much less sad.
TRL
