Box of leaves
My mom mailed me a box of leaves.
The box arrived on Wednesday and I had no clue what was inside. I thought maybe mom and dad had sent a late birthday present, but even after shaking it — all I heard was rustling — I was clueless. I pealed off the two layers of brown paper and packing tape (my parents are notorious for mailing boxes wrapped secure enough to carry top secret equipment or information), made a few cuts, and opened the top flaps to reveal…a Technicolor jumble of fallen leaves.
Most people would find it odd, but a box full of leaves was just what I’ve been wanting.
I miss autumn in the Midwest. Football, cooling temperatures, and beautiful leaves. Oh, the leaves. Orange, red, yellow; the trees put on a show. One of my favorite autumn activities is jumping into piles of leaves. After falling in I would lay on top of the dead foliage, listening to the fine, fragile webbing rustling all around me. If the pile was big enough, I would fall through to the bottom and become buried in cedar, maple, and birch leaves. It’s something I can’t do here. There are very few deciduous trees in Southern California, and the few there are are constantly tended by teams of immigrants who rake away fallen leaves every few days to maintain an orderly, tidy appearance.
Fuck tidiness. Give me bright yellow ash leaves that blow all over the place. (The three giant ash trees in front of our house on Russell blanketed our yard with their leaves every day in late-September and early-October.)
The box of leaves is a little piece of home. I was jealous as hell while watching the Iowa-Penn State game. The cold, the wind, the light flurries. Imagine that: it was sunny and 80º in Huntington Beach today, and I was hankering for a cold Midwestern afternoon. Everyone back in Iowa — especially those who were bundled up at Kinnick Stadium today — would call me crazy. But chilly November days, with leaves blowing all over the place, are in my blood. I need them to survive, like diabetics need insulin. Needless to say, I’m suffering from a severe deficiency of real autumn weather. The box of leaves has given me a tiny little portion of the fix I truly need.
Here’s a pic for your viewing pleasure. I’m no arborist, and I don’t remember anything from my high school biology tree test (“It’s a pin oak!”), so I have no clue what type of trees the leaves grew on. The four largest, I believe, are maple leaves.
The box arrived on Wednesday and I had no clue what was inside. I thought maybe mom and dad had sent a late birthday present, but even after shaking it — all I heard was rustling — I was clueless. I pealed off the two layers of brown paper and packing tape (my parents are notorious for mailing boxes wrapped secure enough to carry top secret equipment or information), made a few cuts, and opened the top flaps to reveal…a Technicolor jumble of fallen leaves.
Most people would find it odd, but a box full of leaves was just what I’ve been wanting.
I miss autumn in the Midwest. Football, cooling temperatures, and beautiful leaves. Oh, the leaves. Orange, red, yellow; the trees put on a show. One of my favorite autumn activities is jumping into piles of leaves. After falling in I would lay on top of the dead foliage, listening to the fine, fragile webbing rustling all around me. If the pile was big enough, I would fall through to the bottom and become buried in cedar, maple, and birch leaves. It’s something I can’t do here. There are very few deciduous trees in Southern California, and the few there are are constantly tended by teams of immigrants who rake away fallen leaves every few days to maintain an orderly, tidy appearance.
Fuck tidiness. Give me bright yellow ash leaves that blow all over the place. (The three giant ash trees in front of our house on Russell blanketed our yard with their leaves every day in late-September and early-October.)
The box of leaves is a little piece of home. I was jealous as hell while watching the Iowa-Penn State game. The cold, the wind, the light flurries. Imagine that: it was sunny and 80º in Huntington Beach today, and I was hankering for a cold Midwestern afternoon. Everyone back in Iowa — especially those who were bundled up at Kinnick Stadium today — would call me crazy. But chilly November days, with leaves blowing all over the place, are in my blood. I need them to survive, like diabetics need insulin. Needless to say, I’m suffering from a severe deficiency of real autumn weather. The box of leaves has given me a tiny little portion of the fix I truly need.
Here’s a pic for your viewing pleasure. I’m no arborist, and I don’t remember anything from my high school biology tree test (“It’s a pin oak!”), so I have no clue what type of trees the leaves grew on. The four largest, I believe, are maple leaves.
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