Burning Leaves

By Carol Hoorman 

In the not so distant past, people used to have fireplaces in their backyards made of sturdy brick, mostly to be found in the smaller towns or rural areas. This is where the excess “stuff” was disposed of, in “those” days. This is the time when little girls looked gangly and unstylish, wore ankle socks and glasses in the shape of cat’s eye. Little boys would ride you on the handles of their bikes and that meant they liked you.

At any rate, the smell of burning leaves in those fireplaces would signal the official beginning of fall, and my favorite holiday, Halloween, would be close at hand. We’d be running through the streets like a pack of young dogs, nostrils flaring in the crisp night air, the smell of musty leaves tickling our throats. We made crunchy steps across the lawns while we were out on the prowl. It was the one night children got a little freedom and chaos would reign. The air was tingling with excitement as we hit the street in our unusual costumes, paper bags in hand, prancing around by the light of a full moon. There were oddly carved Jack-O-Lanterns on every porch with ominous scarecrows guarding the yards and fences. Everything was once much more interesting at night, more sinister, taking on horrific shapes and unnatural motion, as shadows twisted and turned in the chilly breeze. We’d come home with our bags full of goodies and numerous horror stories about the old folks at the end of the street. They lived in the run down house, at the end of an aging cul-de-sac. The house was now over-run with vines and holy, like a fluffy, green, wool sweater. Of course they were vampires, at the very least.

My dad would be sitting in his favorite chair when I got home, waiting for me, but not wanting me to know that. He was always there, my Dad, in the shadows of my life. The incredible man I never really knew. He lived an unbeautiful life with black grease under his nails and very bad breath from smoking too much. I never welcomed his hugs or kisses. His face was usually rough and scratchy and he used to like to rub it against my cheek to make me mad. He could do anything, fix anything, build anything and he was my hero when I was a little girl. He fixed my doll’s head with plaster-of-paris for the ten hundredth time and I tenderly put her to bed. My mother later threw it away because it became so top heavy.

As I grew up, my car was always washed, full of gas, my car insurance always paid. This was all he could do to show his love as my blooming womanhood pushed him further away. He sat silently in his chair, staring ahead at Death Valley Days, smoking cigarette after cigarette, working seven days a week. He seldom had much to say and was ashamed he left school in the 5th grade to work his parent’s farm, being the only son with seven sisters.

He was a sullen, moody, dark cloud that hung around our heads and erupted into rain on occasion. Grouchy, forbidding and unlovable, he kept me at a distance with these traits. He was the first man I ever met and as a little girl, thought all men must be like him. He made all kinds of wonderful things in his workshop. A magical place that smelled of oil and grease with amazing little gadgets hanging everywhere.

Whirring, buzzing noises would make me clasp my little hands to my ears and shriek, as a slow, reluctant smile coaxed it’s way along his lips. The workshop had a dirt floor and many little shelves, pans and buckets, full of nails, bolts and screws, covering the crude wooden walls. A talented artist in his own rough hewn style, he made many things out of metal. In addition to that, he built two Indian 4-cylinder motorcycles in this shop, with parts he collected in his travels.

Many hours were spent, sitting on a little bench on that dirt floor, polishing the shiny metal Indian on the front of those bikes. I worked merrily away and paused intermittently to look up at his face and proclaim, “Daddy, Daddy, look how shiny I made it,” as he would smile cautiously and say in a low gravely voice, “Yes, I see,” and religiously return to working. That was my job as I watched in amazement as my father busily spun from machine to machine whipping up incredible inventions, while lazy cigarette circles wafted to the ceiling which revealed sun and blue sky through the cracks.

He put his wizardry to motion as he created little silver rings, with hearts on it for his youngest child. In the winter when my little hands got cold, the metal rings would contract and fall off. I lost several that way and he always promptly made a new one, with never any mention of my carelessness. I would lie on the sofa at night while he and my mother watched the news and spoke in hushed tones about bills, my brother’s whereabouts, grocery shopping and Vietnam. Thinking I was asleep, I let him carry me upstairs and put me in bed. That was the most fun of all, tricking him. He is the man who once told me, never be ashamed of who you are, or where you come from. How long it has taken me to understand what he meant. How hard it must have been for him to love me sometimes.

He died at home in his bed, with all of us sitting around him, my sister and I holding his hands.  What a hard, bumpy ride to release. I could see his strong Seminole cheekbones begin to soften and fade as he turned an ashen gray and became so unnaturally still. His spirit turned homeward in relief, peace and hope. Leaving behind the little girl, now a grown woman, who wished she knew him better. How proud I am of his life and how he lived it in his special, unbeautiful way.

What I would give for that heart shaped ring, roughly formed and polished, created by a man who lived life and passed through almost unnoticed by the hastily spinning world. Except by his youngest daughter, who never knew how much she loved him, until he was gone.