The Old Coot is a fire bug

By Merlin Lessler —

It’s a lovely fall afternoon as I sit here looking out the window instead of reading the book on my lap. (The Thursday Murder Club, by Richard Osman.) The wind is gusting, blowing leaves out of the trees and across the yard. It’s blowing so hard that the leaves are whizzing by, 20- feet above the ground. 

It reminds me of the good old days, when that wonderful aroma of burning leaves surrounded the neighborhood where I lived amid a forest of trees that surrounded our house. There were so many leaves that it was a struggle to wade through them to cross the yard. I raked up elephant size mounds and fed them into a small pile that I’d set on fire. Eventually I’d get impatient and get too many going at one time, sending a plume of smoke through the neighborhood. That’s when the neighbors called my wife and asked her to have a word with the fire bug burning leaves. 

I’d back off for a while, and when I thought no one was looking I would get the blaze going again. If I didn’t I’d be out there all weekend. But that aroma from the burning leaves was oh so nice, on par with that of fresh bread baking in an oven. 

I am glad I moved from that “leaf” house. I cannot imagine bagging the mountain of leaves I dealt with back then. When I moved to Owego and was clearing the backyard of several years of accumulated leaves, I decided to burn them to rid myself of the mess. 

Since it was illegal to do so, someone called the police, but luck was with me. The policeman went to the wrong address; I had time to quiet down the fire and he left without finding the culprit. Besides, my real problem was a giant Chinese ginkgo tree in the front yard. Its leaves fell in a single day, starting the morning after the first hard frost of fall. It looked like a winter blizzard when it happened. The real issue had nothing to do with the ban on burning. 

Those leaves wouldn’t burn anyhow. They were still green when they fell, packed with moisture and slippery as eels. So slippery that you couldn’t move them with a rake; you had to push them with a snow shovel. It took me the better part of two days to get them to the curb, and where a village worker came by with a leaf machine to suck them up. 

Then the machine broke and wasn’t replaced. We had to bag leaves after that. One fall I broke a record, ending up with 50 30-gallon bags, stuffed to the top. Each bag weighed a ton; I had to use a wheelbarrow to get them to the curb. 

I’ve moved out of the “Gingko” house, but still like to walk by on the day the leaves come storming down. It’s not my problem anymore thanks to the new owners, Mike and Jennifer. 

I do miss the wonderful aroma of burning leaves swirled through the countryside. I guess I became addicted to it when I was a kid. My friend Woody and I cooked hotdogs over a leaf easily: push them into a little pile, drop in a lit match and presto, you had all the fire needed to cook hotdogs on a stick. 

Every year, as the leaves start to drop, I’m tempted to build a small fire and become surrounded by that wonderful aroma, if just for a few minutes. So far my willpower has held up, but who knows what the future will bring. 

Comments, complaints? Send them to mlessler7@gmail.com.