Fallen Leaves Illustration by Lee Kuruganti © 2007
Fallen leaves
by P.S. Gifford © 2007
“As a young girl- and I am going back sixty-five or more years now- I always used to enjoy the autumn far more than any other season. I found the summer months of Georgia unbearably hot and sweltering and the winter months both tempestuous and bitter. Yet, in the autumn Georgia was, and still surely is, heaven on earth. As a young girl I used to relish idly shuffling my booted feet through the heaps of fallen leaves through our comfortable, middle-classed neighborhood. My father worked for the government and was handsomely rewarded for it. My mother never worked, and stayed at home to raise me and my two brothers. The avenue where we were fortunate to live was lined with dozens of the state tree of Georgia, the Oak. I used to delight in racing on my bicycle through the leathery, optical shaped, mounds of leaves on a blustery October morning. The oaks always seemed so immense, so secure and oh so powerful to me. I somehow felt strangely protected in the grace of their prodigious presence, and that as long as they surrounded me no harm would dare venture my way. I used to often pick up a stray acorn and hold it in the palm of my hand tightly, in complete awe that from such a meek seed as this that a tremendous tree sprouted with its gorgeous red-brown furrowed bark. Then there was the old creek just at the rear of our oversized house, left undisturbed as nature intended it to be. Land seemed so plentiful back then. In that creek I used to run wild and free, as my young mind filled with both idle recklessness and the immeasurable possibilities of the future.
It was an era of purity, and although I did not realize it at the time, the most straightforward and joyful days of my entire life. Yes, I would give anything to be aged ten just one more time, and be full of simple thoughts. My grand children are young, but they are certainly not innocent. Or are they pure of heart, the only times they go to church are when someone is born, wed, or dead, and even then they hardly bother to dress up. Why folks don't even bother wearing a hat on the way to church anymore. My how times, and people, have surely changed. For back in my day there were no cell phones, video games, televisions or other electronic distractions. We had a radio, which we listened to as a family. Oh, those old time radio shows, how we giggled and shivered as we listened to them as a family…We had mysteries, suspense and even horror, but all had a spirit of knowing just how far to take the listener, without going over any boundaries. That was story telling at its finest. They allowed the story to play out in your imagination. Of course there were the movies too, and once a month we would take the car up to town on a Sunday afternoon, after church, and take in a matinee followed by an ice cream sundae. And back then parents had not worry whether what we saw on the silver screen was going to be inappropriate…there was no ‘R' rated movies back then- or even ‘PG'. But my most preferred past-time was unquestionably reading. I used to enjoy nothing better than completely absorbing myself in a good book. As a child My secret Garde n, was my absolute favorite. I must have devoured that book at least twenty times in my youth, and each time with equal enjoyment.
Well last week- I turned eighty, can you figure that…Eighty! When I was a child reaching this age was virtually unheard of. I must admit, on reflection, I could have had a far worse life, we lived in a comfortable home and finance was never a concern- I married a young upstart doctor in my early twenties. He promptly dragged me away from Georgia and my family, to a small town in Arizona to work for a nearby hospital. I suppose at first his arrogance excited me, and maybe, just maybe, I actually did love him a little– at first. We raised three kids together. Decent respectable children, who are all now married with children of their own. Of course they are far too wrapped up in their own daily lives to bother with us much theses days, and they are spread out all over the country. My youngest daughter, Mary, even went out and got a business degree and began her own small company. Now she is in her fifties and sitting pretty financially, I am not ashamed to brag about her. That would have been unthinkable back in my day, a woman starting her own business, I am mighty proud of my Mary, let me tell you.
Of course officer, you know the rest of the story; the secret that I had kept hidden for so many years. My respectable husband was not as perfect as he might have seemed from the outside. He was prone to drinking, heavy drinking, and then to lashing out. Oh, he was careful alright, him being a doctor and all, he only bruised me where it wouldn't show. He said that was to save me from having had to lie to anyone. As he got older he mellowed with age…Don't we all? However I never quite forgave him. And I know deep in my heart that our children, bless them, have never forgiven either of us, and that is why we don't hear from them often.
Two years previous I had thrown Gerald a grand eightieth birthday party at the local hotel's ballroom. I hired a big band and everything. It cost a small fortune- but it was his fortune and not really mine as such, so why should I care? Anyhow, showing a glimmer of still caring he asked me what I wanted to do to celebrate mine. So I told him I wanted to go back to Georgia, and walk in those fallen leaves along the old avenue where I had lived for so many contented years. I further longed to revisit the creek where I spent so many glorious afternoons in my youth. Surprisingly he agreed.
When we arrived here a week ago, I discovered, to my utter disgust, that the old family home had long been knocked down, as had been every other majestic house on the avenue. Now where fifteen or so grandiose Victorian mansions once proudly sat, each on at least an acre of land, hundreds of compact modern homes were lined up, almost bumping into each other. Gone too were all the oak trees I so once admired. I remember that tears broke out from my eyes, and I was not ashamed to let them flow. It was then I remembered my creek, my precious sanctuary of my youth, and we headed in its direction. I recall that as I trekked I closed my eyes and saliently prayed that it would still be there and not destroyed like my own home. As I turned the corner, and passed a new vulgarly over sized mega mart eye sore, I saw it. I was amazed not only was it still there, but it had hardly changed. It had been made into some wildlife park- and the land was therefore protected. I felt my walking tempo quicken, and Gerald had a hard time matching my pace. When we arrived we were both gasping for air.
It was like I had been transformed back in time. For a few moments I forgot about my aching bones, my diabetes, my failing eyesight and all of the other numerous maladies that inflict most of my generation. I was a kid again.
That autumn morning a week ago was blissful, and the creek was abundant with falling leaves. I remembered how happy I was as a child being here. For the first time as an adult I remembered what being untarnished felt like.
Then my idyllic frame of mind was rudely and abruptly interrupted.
It was Gerald's irritating voice. The same voice that had controlled me for sixty years after I foolishly agreed to marry him. He was telling me that we needed to go, that he was hungry, and they needed to find a restaurant for lunch. I stared at him, almost as if for the first time. I saw the distorted scowl on his sagging liver-spotted face. I remembered all those time he had raised his hands to me…Then I remembered the memory I had tried to shut away for so long, the image of him caning our children, our very own flesh and blood, being tortured for simply being children; a ripped dress, a broken bicycle, a scraped knee. All the tiny, normal catastrophes and accidents that every normal child experiences; were met with Gerald's well used cane. And I remembered as I watched on, tears in my eyes, too afraid to stop him, knowing that if I did I would only enrage him further and become his target yet. Then I remembered all the times he did beat me; for overcooking his dinner, for not darning his socks, not giving in to his masculine needs, and sometimes just because he was so drunk and had nothing better to do to entertain himself. I know. I know. I surely should have left the bastard. But I was brought up to take the wedding vows seriously. I had committed myself to him in the lord's name- and I could never go back on my word.
At that moment, standing there in the creek, I was overcome with pent up hate; sixty years worth. He was till looking at his watch and grumbling it was past his usual lunchtime when I saw it; a broken off branch from one of my beloved oak trees directly in front of me. It was about four feet long and eight inches in diameter. As I looked at it, the branch seemed to be calling to me. It practically felt a present from God himself. Just as Gerald turned to leave the creek, I swooped down and picked it up.
I sprinted towards him. Yes, I know it is hard to believe that an eighty year old woman sprinted. But at that moment I did not care how painful it was, I did not worry that my lungs were gasping for air, I sprinted as quickly as I could propel myself towards Gerald. As I approached him, he must have heard me, as he turned, with just enough time to witness the oak branch above my head, and surely the mad expression on my face startled him. He tried to cry out. Yet, I was beyond redemption. I cracked the branch down with all the force I could muster. Gerald fell to the ground with bloodshed eyes staring bewildered up at me. As he gazed helplessly up at me, Gerald began to softly beg. He was a pitiful sight- a mere shadow of his former days. A life of alcohol abuse had taken its toll on him. Yet, I was undeterred. I brought he branch down yet again, and as he was closer to the ground it made an even greater impact. I heard his nose crack. Then I hit him again, and again, and yet again. Maybe thirty or more times in all. Finally I became increasingly slower with my blows as a combination of exhaustion and realization of what I had done began to take to register in my aching mind. I was like a clockwork toy winding slowly down. I hit him one final time, and then let the branch drop out of my fingers to rest on his bloodied lifeless shell of a body. His facial features were unrecognizable, and his right eye ball had fallen from its gooey socket and just sort of hung there, as if looking at me in total disbelief. I sat there beside him, and softly wept. But they were not tears of sorrow that dampened my cheeks, no siree far from it- they were tears of joy.
After a couple of hours of sitting there thinking over things I realized that the sun was about to set, and I was feeling mighty hungry after all that exertion. I dragged Gerald behind an old oversized oak tree and calmly covered him with some of the abundant fallen leaves. I knew that he would soon be found- and that I was going to get caught, but I figure I am eighty years old- and the trial might take a year or two. A life sentence to me might only be a few months, and I am told that prisoners are allowed to read.
As I said Officer, that was just over a week ago. It has been a glorious few days. Every day I went and visited my creek, and I sat there and read, then one day I noticed that Gerald's body had gone. I wasn't surprised last night when you lot came a knocking on my motel door- I had been expecting you.
Oh, and by the way officer…I love My secret garden just as much as when I read it for the very first time.”
The End
