The evening began as it always did on these occasions. As our moms set popcorn and brownies on the green countertops, they warned us that they would be back to pick us up early the next morning. My cousins and I grumbled and argued that the next day would be Saturday, and we wanted to stay longer. It never mattered how well we argued our case, my mom and my aunt would be back at the first ray of daylight with my Grandpa’s pancakes barely off the pan (he always made pancakes and still does whenever we stay the night). We would be forced to scarf them down, still scorching hot, in a bleary-eyed, sleepy haze. Our hair was always sticking up in random tangles as we tried to ignore the needless hurrying of our parents and the occasional “eat like you like it” grumbles from Grandpa.
After our moms’ strict, stubborn warnings and subsequent departures, we sprinted outside before the sun went down. We stomped our way up the yard to the old workshop that smelled like gas and sawdust, over to the wall where the rakes were hanging. After a bit of arguing, Sydney and I walked out of the shop as champions with our trophies. Marley trailed behind, still sulking and adamantly stating that she would get a rake after five minutes. She claimed she would be counting, but everyone knew how Marley counted during hide-and-go-seek on those rare times she was actually “it.” She would start slow and then gradually speed up to an absurd quickness that would cause Sydney and I to come out of our hiding spots and tell her that that was “against the rules.” The same situation applied to raking. She started counting slowly with Sydney joining in, demonstrating how it ought to be done, “1…2…3…4…5678” and then Sydney snapped at her, and she went back to an angry quiet again.
Even pulling on shoes was something no one did alone. Grandpa also said nothing about socks, and honestly, no one would know where those were at that point. No one even knew at what point Sydney had taken her shoes off — these things just happened.
On the way back, Sydney and I tried to balance the wooden handles in our palms. We generally could only keep them upright for a few seconds at a time. Marley tried to grab for a rake, but we always snatched it away, or pushed her away, so she would sulk more. The truth was, Marley only needed the rake for a handful of seconds before she would get tired, drop it, and run over to the sandbox or swing set, but Sydney and I would fight her anyways. We came upon the undefined courtyard; the two oak trees, the swing set, and the porch as a mark of its boundaries. Around the time that the metal rakes touched the yellow leaves, Grandpa walked outside. He was sporting his seasonal goatee that he always starts growing out around September and then shaves around February or March.
“Where are your shoes, Earl?” he yelled at Sydney. She glanced guiltily down to her icy, hard feet. She turned to Marley and me.
“Will you come inside with me? Please?” she asked. I dramatically sighed and threw my rake down like it was the most draining task in creation. Marley hopped off the swing. We followed her into the Florida Room for the small seconds it took for her to pull on her boots. Even pulling on shoes was something no one did alone. Grandpa also said nothing about socks, and honestly, no one would know where those were at that point. No one even knew at what point Sydney had taken her shoes off — these things just happened.
The ground was splattered with reds and yellows and browns. We began making lines in the colorful, crunching carpet as we dragged the leaves into a large pile, until the weak grass underneath poked its head up again and visible lines showed in the dirt.
We broke past the white door back outside and into the nipping, chilly air. We watched our hot breath and pretended that we were dragons or that we were smoking, and then moved back to the task at hand.
The ground was splattered with reds and yellows and browns. We began making lines in the colorful, crunching carpet as we dragged the leaves into a large pile, until the weak grass underneath poked its head up again and visible lines showed in the dirt. Sydney and Marley complained that we could stop, but I always wanted the pile to be as tall and wide as it could possibly be. Finally, after an agonizing wait, Sydney and Marley jumped off of the swings (Sydney finally abandoning her rake minutes prior in her frustration with my stubborn need to collect every leaf the yard offered; Sydney might as well pull the leaves off the trees to satisfy me). Then I decreed my rule, as per tradition.
“Don’t throw the leaves, otherwise it will take longer to rake them up again,” I stated. This would be one of many rules that added up over time and were all equally disregarded.
Marley jumped in first, somehow in a dog-like position with her knees and hands landing in the same spot, a skill she might have garnered from her brief stint in gymnastics. She rolled around and tossed leaves above her head (partially out of spite), I fussed as I watched the burst of color float down to the edges of the pile, and then as soon as I argued for Marley to leave, I compulsively told them to wait. I raked the edges of the pile into another mountain just before Sydney leaped into the leaves and began crawling out.
“Wait, get in the middle and lie down,” I laughed, and Marley came to the edge, knowing instinctively what was coming. Every year we would play the same ruse. Sydney lay down with her head toward the swing set. Marley and I took armfuls of leaves and buried Sydney. When she was completely hidden, Marley ran inside and called Grandpa out onto the porch. As soon as he was in sight, I whispered, “Stay still,” as Sydney rustled underneath the scratchy, uncomfortable blanket. The door screeched open.
“Look at our pile!” I yelled, excited about the enormous moment coming next.
“Looks good, Earl,” he grinned. He calls all of my cousins and me “Earl.” Sometimes we get our own adjectives, too, but Marley gets “Little Earl” more often than anyone.
“BAH!” Sydney shouted, bursting up from the pile. Grandpa had to have known it was coming at some point, since we did that same routine every autumn. We had actually already done that same “surprise” at least twice each Sunday for the past three Sundays.
The fire was blazing in the Florida Room, and we huddled together in the white wicker chairs with the shells hanging from the ceiling nearby, our hands close to the heat. The grandfather clock chimed, and Grandpa made us count each DING until eight fingers stuck up.
As soon as Grandpa went back inside, Marley and I surrounded Sydney, picking bits of leaves out of her hair. Eventually, all rules were discarded, and we all took turns being buried or throwing leaves at one another until it got dark outside and the cold swept us inside.
The fire was blazing in the Florida Room, and we huddled together in the white wicker chairs with the shells hanging from the ceiling nearby, our hands close to the heat. The grandfather clock chimed, and Grandpa made us count each DING until eight fingers stuck up. I thought about how Sydney always stuck her thumb out as “one” instead of using her index finger (or God forbid, “pointer finger” as Sydney called it). We made our way to the Green Room (that later turned into the Tiger Room) to the pastel pink bed to talk until we moved to the old PC. We looked up videos on YouTube (“Total Eclipse of the Heart” would play at some point, a childhood favorite of mine). Grandpa pulled quilts and covers off of the rack and laid them on the bed for us to sleep under although we knew we would end up sleeping downstairs.
We all raced to the recliner. These were the days before Sydney became the dubbed “AV” girl and secured permanent rights to it Sydney ended up in the seat beside me as we warmed up under Grandpa’s new fuzzy black blanket. Marley usually ended up on an arm of the chair because she was the littlest.
We turned on the TV to ABC Family’s “13 Nights of Halloween” that was playing The Corpse Bride. Marley was dispatched to ask Grandpa for a bowl of popcorn (because, Sydney convinced her, “you run the fastest!”; eventually I would be guilted into going, too). Sydney and Marley weren’t supposed to have caffeine, but I smuggled a few Cokes down the steps as the night went on.
The blankets smelled like smoke and dampness and general basement, but we didn’t care. We draped a blanket over Marley, and Sydney and I shared the short couch, sleeping head to foot. I wouldn’t admit it, but I was afraid of Grandpa’s house at night.
When Emily the Corpse Bride finally turned into butterflies, we would start other kinds of contests like designing dresses by drawing them. I generally just copied whatever I saw my cousin Kelsey drawing most recently.
After we got tired of that, we watched the remaining minutes of Hocus Pocus until Marley nodded off on the long couch in the back. I ran in fear of all things ghost-related as I grabbed blankets and pillows from the table in the room with the washer and dryer. The blankets smelled like smoke and dampness and general basement, but we didn’t care. We draped a blanket over Marley, and Sydney and I shared the short couch, sleeping head to foot. I wouldn’t admit it, but I was afraid of Grandpa’s house at night. I rationalized that Marley had secret powers that would protect us in the case of a ghost or an intruder. Sydney was on the opposite end of the couch doing the exact same thing, but we never realized we both used this strategy until years later.
“Will you turn on the lamp?” Sydney whispered.
“But the TV is on,” I replied.
“Please,” Sydney whispered. I sighed dramatically and threw my end of the shared cover over as I walked to the lamp with the dog and the books on the end of it. I glanced at the golden retriever and pet its head with my index/pointer finger (depending on who you were asking). I liked to pretend things like that were secretly alive. The yellow light sprang out from the lamp, and I walked over to my stained, flat pillow without its case (basement pillows are the worst of the worst). My allergies would be terrible the next morning. We said goodnight, and were woken up the next morning to moms flying around yelling about soda cans scattered about the downstairs den.
