Autumn on my street in the early sixties was a time that has forever lingered in my mind. The smell of burning leaves, Friday night football games and coal being delivered to heat our home are some of the most prominent memories.
After the leaves on the trees had changed colors and fallen to ground it was my job to rake them up for disposal. In our neighborhood we raked everything that had fallen, into the street and lit them on fire. During the months of October and November piles of burning leaves emitted a pungent aroma all over the city. Once the smell becomes committed to your memory, it never seems to leave. Just one whiff and your mind races back to those days of simplicity. The burning piles were to be attended by the owner until they turned to ash. We were often on guard with a garden hose and shovel in the event a sudden wind delivered a little mischief to the yard next door.
The ritual of leaf disposal often took place on the weekends, sometimes with the neighbors offering each other a beverage like hot coffee or cocoa with which to pass the time. Conversation was casual as the embers glowed and the younger kids played. Sometimes before we lighted the fires ,we raked the leaves into large piles and played in them. Running and jumping into a large pile of leaves and burying yourself underneath was a wonderfully simplistic experience. This process was repeated many times during the collection process. Once the fires had burned out and the leaves were gone , we soon returned to the warmth of our homes hoping that there would be more leaves falling next week. These simple experiences that the whole family enjoyed together have been lost to civic regulations and favorite television shows and have become a reason to remain inside during those long cool evenings.
If you were fifteen and it was Friday night, your destination was generally the High School Football game. Being too young to drive, meeting your girlfriend at the game was the accepted practice. It took me an hour to get ready for this date every week. Looking just right was important and the dresser mirror was not always your friend. No self respecting 15 year old male was going on a date without his hair being perfect. This trick was accomplished with a product called Vitalis. It was hair oil for men. With the right amount of this invention a guy could be outside all night without ever having a hair out of place. Once satisfied that the perfect look was achieved, it was time to get to the game. It was preferable to hook a ride with someone your age that had a diver’s license. That was cool. What was not cool was to have your Mom drop you off. If this became your last resort for transportation, she was instructed to drop you off a few blocks away so no one would see you. Once connected with your date at the prearranged meeting spot, the rest of the evening was a mix of pop corn, hand-holding, walking around to be seen and very little conversation. The only thing that was less observed than meaningful conversation, was the football game. The game was the reason to get together, not the entertainment. The satisfaction for the evening was being in the company of a pretty girl. The were no rules but, there were high hopes. Chiefly among these, being the opportunity to walk the young lady home. If that wish was granted, then the next step in the hope department was to get to hold her hand. This was generally accomplished at about the halfway point of the trip. If it happened, this is where conversation seemed to lag. Hand holding and heart palpitations seemed to coincide. If general conversation were attempted it often would come out of the throat in a sound that was akin to a frog talking. So it was best to enjoy the intimacy and minimize communication.
Once arriving at her house, the ritual of saying goodbye commenced. The goal was to solicit a good night kiss but many things could foil this attempt. First she had to signal that it was ok. This was accomplished by a smile and a turn in your direction. This sounds simple enough, but all kinds of things generally went wrong. If you didn’t step on her toes, or knock her off the porch, there was always the inconvenient timing of her Dad turning on the porch light. However, once in a while the stars lined up and lips would touch for just a quick moment. After that it was time to go, because it was entirely possible that the palpitations could turn into a full blown heart attack. I challenge anyone who has ever been the recipient of their first front porch kiss, to recall a time when they were ever more excited. It didn’t take long to get home, no matter how far away it was.
It is now the Autumn of my life and my thoughts often return to that season of the year that leaves fall from the trees. Front porches and football games are indelibly etched on the windows of my mind. I will be forever grateful to my parents for the opportunity to grow up in a small town in Indiana in 1960’s. And when I am thinking about my most important childhood milestones, I always remember the night of that first front porch kiss.
