I read somewhere that a large, mature soft maple tree produces as many as seven million leaves in a season. That seems an impossible number, but I tend to believe it. The house that was my family’s home from the time I was in third grade until I was married was located on a small acreage at the edge of town on what had, during the 1800’s and early 1900’s, been part of a large commercial cherry orchard. While hardly a mansion, the house was fairly large for its time with large rooms, tall windows, high ceilings, beautiful woodwork and floors of narrow pale hardwood boards. It was located on just short of ten acres of land it shared with a small barn, corn-crib and chicken house.

No cherry trees remained, but there were a few old pear trees, two apple trees, a strawberry bed, large garden plot and generous lawn. A huge silver maple shaded the back porch and kitchen area of the house and part of the lawn, launching thousands of tiny twirling helicopters every summer. A row of elm trees marched along the far side of the driveway that curved around to the parking area between the house and barn, and assorted iris lined the near side. There were overgrown spirea bushes next to the foundation on the west, and a thick bed of ferns on the east. A huge lilac bush marked the curve of the driveway and the far end of the backyard clothesline. Beneath part of the clothesline was a paved-over slab where a former cistern had been. At some point, the house had been “modernized” with electricity, a coal-burning furnace in the basement and indoor plumbing. One bedroom on the second floor had been converted to a bathroom directly above the kitchen where one could clearly hear every upstairs faucet being turned on and off, every gurgle of water draining from sink and tub and every flush of the toilet.

The house was located at the south end of a block-long street and a cross street that ran the entire width of the town from the highway which bordered our acreage on the east side, to the road on the west that led to the fairgrounds and sale barn and on to Indianola. Because the house was located on about the highest elevation in town, we could see glimpses of the town of Pella from our kitchen window. The house had a shady front porch with a paved walkway ending near the street at the end of the driveway. The city had never required sidewalks to be built in that part of town, and the only one near our house was on the other side of the street, ending at the highway to the east and eventually becoming a paved walk heading west toward the elementary school and beyond to the middle of town.

Aside from that short sidewalk to shovel in winter, the only hazard to foot traffic on our property was an enormous soft maple tree directly in front of the house. By October, the leaves had begun to fall from its lofty branches. Huge leaves ranging from green-gold to crimson floated down day and night, gently accumulating in fluffy piles that crackled and whispered as we walked through them on our way to and from school. The mailman (who arrived twice a day in those days) didn’t seem to mind having to kick them aside as he headed toward the mailbox on a post at the top of the front steps. At least, he didn’t mind as long as the leaves were dry, crisp and easily kicked aside. It was another matter, however, when they were rain-soaked, slippery and a threat to shoes and pant legs.

As a result of a complaint by a substitute mail carrier, we were politely requested to relocate our mailbox at the end of the walk where it met the driveway, or to keep the paved walkway cleared of leaves and “other litter” or we would be required to pick up our mail at the post office! Considering the labor to plant a sturdy post and regulation postal service-approved mailbox (the type required for rural delivery) or the inconvenience of daily trips to the post office, it was decided that a few weeks of leaf and “other litter” removal would be the best solution. Optimistically thinking it a once-daily chore, I readily agreed to shoulder the responsibility. There were few rainy days that fall, I didn’t have to deal with seven million leaves, just several thousand, and Dad just happened to know the postmaster.