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Leaves In Vermont
The leaves, in autumn in Vermont, are every shade of fire. In the woods behind our rented ranch house on a newly developed cul de sac, the sun hit the foliage from above, setting the trees ablaze with colour. Even the all-powerful sun had to fight to reach the earth, the leaves were so dense; only shafts of light, alive with dancing motes, touched the forest floor.
‘Look at this one, Beth Anne,’ my mother said. ‘Look how big it is – and so red! But see how it’s not only red? Do you see the veins of yellow? Isn’t it beautiful!’
My feet swooshed through the fallen leaves as we made our way among the trees, searching. I picked up a bright leaf and presented it wordlessly to my mom.
‘That one is so orange, it reminds me of a pumpkin!’ Mom exclaimed in delight. ‘Speaking of pumpkins, Pumpkin, this might be the first Halloween you go out trick or treating – you’re a big girl now, aren’t you, big enough to be brave?’
I nodded enthusiastically. Mom kept my leaf and added it to the others in the bag she had brought along for that very purpose.
Mom knelt down briefly. ‘There’s the tower – do you see it?’ she asked, pointing towards a clearing in the woods. ‘Do you think you’ll manage to climb all those stairs?’
I nodded again. Mom rose and walked briskly ahead. I trotted along just behind her, eager to reach the forty-foot tall brick structure. I remembered the ache that would come over my legs – recovering, as they still were, from the correction of the clubfoot I had been born with – but there was no way I would tell my mom that my body was tired. I knew better, even at four, than to sabotage this rare outing. I knew, even then, that my mother was like a bird: you had to keep very still when she was with you, so you could wonder at her for as long as possible before she flew away.
My excitement grew as the tower, crowned by its curious set of rectangular teeth of brick, came closer and closer, but so did my anticipation of disappointment. Would the tower be closed? Would my mom have a change of heart and turn us back, saving the tower for another day?
‘This is the first time we’ve been here since your sister was born, isn’t it?’ Mom asked, as we neared the base of the tower, which – thankfully – was open to visitors that day. ‘There’s the plaque about Bennington. Do you know, your birthday is actually on Bennington Battle Day!’ Mom threw her head back and laughed. I laughed too. I had no idea why it was funny to be born on Bennington Battle Day, but if it made Mom happy, I was all in favour. ‘If we hadn’t moved to Vermont, I never would have known that your birthday was a holiday. And Alice was born on Flag Day. Andrew wasn’t born on any holiday, but his birthday is close to Veteran’s Day. How appropriate.’
The sky remained cloudless, but a shadow passed over my mom’s features; I was still beside her, but she was gone.
I held my breath. I itched to scramble up the tower stairs, to arrive out of breath at the small square platform with the flagpost dead centre and hold on to the iron railings between the brick teeth to behold the beauty laid out for me in every direction.
Mom returned – not all of her, but enough. ‘Come on then, your turn to lead the way,’ she said, as if we’d been playing ‘It’ and it was my turn to tag.
I pelted up the stairs, then ran from railing to railing at the top, eyes wide as I took in the explosion of colour below.
‘I forget every time how terrifying this is,’ Mom muttered when she reached the top seconds after me. She grabbed my shoulder to keep me from leaning over the guard rail. ‘You certainly didn’t inherit my fear of heights, did you, Beth Anne?’
When we got home, my mom turned on the iron.
‘What we’ll do,’ Mom told me, ‘is we’ll pick the most amazing leaves from our collection, and we’ll stick them between two sheets of wax paper. We’ll use the iron to melt the wax – that will stop the leaf from decomposing any further. We’ll be able to hang the wax paper leaves in the windows, so we’ll have colour all through the winter months, even when the trees are bare. That’ll cheer us up when there’s snow on the ground, won’t it?’
We sorted through our spoils. I puffed up with pride when Mom let me choose all the winning leaves. When Andy toddled into the room, Mom sent him straight out again. ‘You can’t be in here, Andrew,’ Mom told my freckled brother. ‘The iron is on. It’s too dangerous.’ By now I was walking on air with the favour bestowed upon me.
I was permitted to stay in the room, but I wasn’t allowed to handle the iron. I watched Mom’s deft movements as she slipped a leaf into a waxed paper sandwich bag then pressed the iron down on top. An acrid smell filled my nostrils and made my throat tickle; I resisted the impulse to pinch my nose shut.
Mom seemed to know instinctively how long to keep the leaf, in its wax-paper sleeve, pinned under the shiny metal of the iron. When the wax had melted, but not burned, Mom removed the iron and lifted the finished product gingerly between her right thumb and index finger.
There it was, a volcano of red and yellow in the shape of a maple leaf, trapped forever by my mother’s magic.
‘Isn’t that gorgeous?’ Mom said.
I clapped my hands together in delight.