Part 2
And what’s going on in the street? The dead end court that we live on? It is filled with big boys. The ones who yell at each other while they throw balls around. The ones that talk about exciting and longed for things that I’m told I’m too young for by big brother; like hunting and fishing and big boy ballgames in the field across the tracks. Some of these big boys I’ve never seen before. There are too many. They seem all a jumble.
They act like they’re playing a game, all loud and whooping, and bustling about. But they don’t have a ball or a bat, they have rakes and bushel baskets and big cardboard boxes.
The leaves are falling down from the big old trees. There are so many coming down that your eyes can’t follow just one. They never stop falling, not for a moment. You find yourself waiting for a lull, but then comes a dry rustling sound, high up like whooshing breath from the steely sky, and even more leaves are coming down. One falls on my head and sticks there. I pull it off and there is a bright green caterpillar on it. I feel my head, wondering if there are others there and for a while my scalp itches with the wondering.
The big boys laugh. Some curse, the gentle kind of curses like DARNS and DRATS, as the leaves they seem to be trying to capture in baskets and boxes and cans just keep coming and blowing around willfully. Though they curse, I know they aren’t really mad. It’s for show. They seem to be having a grand time. Some of them sneak sidling glances at the big girls. Some of the big girls stand with hands on hips, watching them work.
Leaves fall down on the heads of the little ones gathered in those last two yards But the boys don’t pay those leaves any mind.
These last yards had been raked first. They focus on the leaves in other yards and in the street.
I’m glad because I can imagine myself being raked into the street or knocked about by thoughtless rake wielding big boys. Big boys are thoughtless. I know this from my big sisters. They are often taking note of the thoughtlessness of big boys. Sometimes it brings them to tears. That makes me feel upset. I feel sort of empty in my stomach and full in my throat when there are tears in the house, unless they’re mine. If they’re mine I don’t feel anything but the hurt that caused them. I resolve not to become a thoughtless big boy myself.
The trees that line the court are the ones sending down the constant flow of leaves. Trees on each side, one at least in front of most every house. The ones in front of the old man’s house are painted white up as far as the old man can reach. He paints them each year with a big brush that looks like a mop and a bucket full of whitewash. Nobody else on the block paints their trees. This puzzles me. Should we be painting our tree?
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