Criminal Intent
I joined the establishment years ago. A child of The Sixties, I'm no longer inclined to civil disobedience. My shoulder-length mop has given way to a smooth pate, flesh in color. I could no more fit into my 1970 vintage custom-embroidered, paisley-enhanced elephantine bell-bottoms than I could sprout wings and lift my massive bulk off the ground. The only thing I smoke these days is brisket.
I'm an all-grown-up, law-abiding, twenty-first century Kansas Citian. I pay my taxes, occasionally on time. I drive the speed limit and then some. I recycle, for crying out loud. Having said all that, I'm about to thumb my nose at law and order, and in doing so, risk the ire of modern civilization. Some laws, it seems, while well-intentioned, just don't stand the smell test, and it raises my hackles that the Nanny State dictates what we can and can't enjoy in the privacy of our own back yards.
Consequences be damned, I'm going to burn leaves.
Before the skies over Kansas City started to take on the dingy pall of smog in the seventies and Air Quality Ordinances were enacted that banned open burning, we burned everything. Leaves, trash, garbage, tree limbs, old furniture - if you could get it to support combustion, it was fair game. Autumn's most rewarding labor was the raking of leaves, and then the burning of those same leaves.
Our house sat on the northwest corner of four lots that were studded with ancient, towering elms and oaks. The leaves drifted down from those trees in October like snow in January. The trees seemed to decide that one particular day was the correct time for the leaves to give up their grasp on summer. They fell as one, blanketing the yard in a crispy layer of yellows, reds and browns.
My job was to rake the yard in sections, ending up with six or seven huge piles of leaves. Aided by a more-or-less willing cohort of neighborhood pals, and hindered by the slightest breeze, we corralled the dry leaves as best we could while entertaining ourselves by jumping in the leaves and throwing them at each other.
Then the payoff. A single match was all it took. At first the leaves at the edge glowed and flickered, then slowly, the rest of the pile caught. Dry leaves burned with amazing speed, and sent embers floating into the indigo dusk, but damp leaves smoked and smoldered, billowing clouds of sweet blue autumn smoke. This simple, aromatic act was being repeated on every block, in every neighborhood. Calm days were foggy with the smoke from leafy bonfires all over town. Yards were scarred with black circles. I used to think that smoke caused pickup football games to break out.
If you want to see someone lose contact with the moment, burn a handful of leaves around anyone over the age of forty. The smell of burning leaves on a cool evening lifts the veil of time and reminds us that we were once young at a time when the passing of seasons were noted not just on the calendar, but with ceremony and a certain respect for their gifts.
I'm going to burn leaves. Maybe not a whole yard's worth - maybe no more than will fit discretely under the lid of my Weber Kettle, but I'm going to thumb my nose at authority and burn leaves. Why? Because it smells good.
Before they arrest me for committing my heinous act of pyro-nostalgic civil disobedience, before they put me in cuffs and haul me away for processing, before my reputation is wrecked and I become a pariah in the eyes of the Homes Association, I'll have the satisfaction of enjoying a lost and simple pleasure of autumn.
I'm an all-grown-up, law-abiding, twenty-first century Kansas Citian. I pay my taxes, occasionally on time. I drive the speed limit and then some. I recycle, for crying out loud. Having said all that, I'm about to thumb my nose at law and order, and in doing so, risk the ire of modern civilization. Some laws, it seems, while well-intentioned, just don't stand the smell test, and it raises my hackles that the Nanny State dictates what we can and can't enjoy in the privacy of our own back yards.
Consequences be damned, I'm going to burn leaves.
Before the skies over Kansas City started to take on the dingy pall of smog in the seventies and Air Quality Ordinances were enacted that banned open burning, we burned everything. Leaves, trash, garbage, tree limbs, old furniture - if you could get it to support combustion, it was fair game. Autumn's most rewarding labor was the raking of leaves, and then the burning of those same leaves.
Our house sat on the northwest corner of four lots that were studded with ancient, towering elms and oaks. The leaves drifted down from those trees in October like snow in January. The trees seemed to decide that one particular day was the correct time for the leaves to give up their grasp on summer. They fell as one, blanketing the yard in a crispy layer of yellows, reds and browns.
My job was to rake the yard in sections, ending up with six or seven huge piles of leaves. Aided by a more-or-less willing cohort of neighborhood pals, and hindered by the slightest breeze, we corralled the dry leaves as best we could while entertaining ourselves by jumping in the leaves and throwing them at each other.
Then the payoff. A single match was all it took. At first the leaves at the edge glowed and flickered, then slowly, the rest of the pile caught. Dry leaves burned with amazing speed, and sent embers floating into the indigo dusk, but damp leaves smoked and smoldered, billowing clouds of sweet blue autumn smoke. This simple, aromatic act was being repeated on every block, in every neighborhood. Calm days were foggy with the smoke from leafy bonfires all over town. Yards were scarred with black circles. I used to think that smoke caused pickup football games to break out.
If you want to see someone lose contact with the moment, burn a handful of leaves around anyone over the age of forty. The smell of burning leaves on a cool evening lifts the veil of time and reminds us that we were once young at a time when the passing of seasons were noted not just on the calendar, but with ceremony and a certain respect for their gifts.
I'm going to burn leaves. Maybe not a whole yard's worth - maybe no more than will fit discretely under the lid of my Weber Kettle, but I'm going to thumb my nose at authority and burn leaves. Why? Because it smells good.
Before they arrest me for committing my heinous act of pyro-nostalgic civil disobedience, before they put me in cuffs and haul me away for processing, before my reputation is wrecked and I become a pariah in the eyes of the Homes Association, I'll have the satisfaction of enjoying a lost and simple pleasure of autumn.
