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When I was a kid, my mom taught me the importance of catching leaves. I must have been little, and I don’t know where my brothers and sisters were. I have six brothers and sisters. I can’t imagine how I had the chance to be out in the fall on a walk with my mom. Alone. There was probably laundry in, dinner cooking, mending to be done, and a dozen other things that needed her attention. But we were on a walk in the fall, just the two of us. Our neighborhood wasn’t that old, but there were some tallish maples and oaks there.
A leaf came drifting down and my mom caught it. She handed it to me, as if it were a gift. She told me that you were supposed to catch ten leaves every fall. It wouldn’t be fair to shake a tree to make leaves drop or to scoop up leaves and toss them into the air and catch them again. No, it had to be leaves whose time was naturally up and fell in their own time. Catching those leaves was a precious thing, like magic. It was something you should do every year.
I don’t know if she made that up herself, on the spur of the moment (honestly, it wouldn't surprise me), or if it had been something that her own father had handed down to her. While I don’t remember how old I was at the time, I was young enough not to question her authority on the matter. If she said it, it was true. My mom loved nature. She could sit and watch sunset after sunset—each one was miraculous.
When I was in high school and college she spent a few years photographing and cataloging every plant that grew in our area in Northwest Indiana. I still have that photo album. Under each picture she wrote the scientific name as well as common name in her neatest cursive. If she couldn't identify a plant, she would look it up or ask one of the local authorities.
Now every year, I catch leaves. I always shoot for ten. Some years I catch many more than my goal. I try to catch them on ten different occasions. It would be too easy to stand under one tree whose time has come on a breezy day and catch all ten practically without moving my feet. While I don’t remember exactly what my mom was teaching me with this catch-ten-leaves-lesson, it was probably something about the importance of being outdoors, about fresh air and the beauty of nature.
Because while one is outside catching leaves, one is NOT inside watching TV or some other sedentary activity. More than likely, if you are in a place to catch falling leaves, you are also playing baseball, or soccer, or kick-the-can, or cream-the-kid-with-the-ball. If you're catching leaves, you are riding your bike, hiking around in the woods, fishing, or catching crickets. If you are in a place to catch falling leaves, you are in the right place.
I remember one of the last times I went to see my mom in western North Carolina. She hadn't been feeling well. It was October 30. I remember because I went with her to get a bone marrow biopsy, and the people in the doctor’s office all wore Halloween costumes and it was a little hard to take them seriously. I took a day off school to go be with her for her appointment. Her husband Jim had died about three months earlier. She didn’t need to go through a bone marrow biopsy alone.
That morning, before driving to North Carolina, I was out catching leaves. I probably looked foolish, a 54 year-old man chasing leaves in the breeze—even falling down once. I was still hoping my mom would be okay, that she would have more time with us. She was even thinking of selling her house and moving near our little family. I caught about half of my quota of leaves that morning.
I held her hand during the biopsy. It wasn’t easy. It was like the doctor took a corkscrew and jammed it through her skin and muscle into her pelvis. It had to hurt. A lot. She was stoic throughout. She didn’t even want to take the test. But doctor and I sort of insisted. I cried. She was strong. The news was bad. She was diagnosed with the disease that would end up taking her life in just a little over two months.
Here it is, 14 years later. This is such a pretty time of year. Heidi and I are ready to take our evening walk. Our old dog died recently, so it’s just us. It’s cool so we’ll put on layers. Our noses will be runny by the time we get back. We’ll probably have our first fire in the fireplace soon. The leaves are turning quickly now. For the next month we’ll be raking, and blowing, skimming them off the pool and sweeping them off the porch.
The time has just changed so at 5:30, it’s already nearly dark.
And if I’m lucky, I’m going to catch some leaves.
Of all the leaves in this big old world
there are none exactly like the ones I caught
on their way to the ground
spinning, spiraling, swirling
so softly – with no sound
and no peace quite so right
as on that day I found
