There’s something magical about the arrival of fall. The air turns crisp, the sky deepens into that soft blue that only autumn seems to hold, and the trees burst into shades of fiery red, golden yellow, and glowing orange. These days, I love nothing more than driving around just to soak in that beauty — but if I’m honest, there was a time when I didn’t quite see the magic. Back then, those gorgeous leaves weren’t a symbol of nature’s beauty; they were a sign that raking season had arrived at Grandma Cooper’s Cottage.
To this day, my hands ache just thinking about it.
Now, raking at Grandma Cooper’s wasn’t just a chore — it was a family event. Everyone who couldn’t legally drive away in the opposite direction was drafted into duty. I’m not sure Mike, Tom, or Nancy ever got roped into it, but maybe that’s just selective memory at work.
Stepping out of Grandma Cooper’s Cottage, the yard was a sea of color — not the tidy, postcard kind, but knee-deep drifts of leaves that swallowed your feet. The moment you opened the door, they rustled up around your ankles, soft and endless. Grandma would hand each of us a pair of gloves and a rake and declare, “Don’t dilly dally now, let’s get to it.”
And we did. Reluctantly.
It didn’t take long to realize this was no small task. You couldn’t just rake from one side of the yard to the other — there were too many leaves. Instead, we’d form a line, shoulder to shoulder, working in unison to create enormous piles. Grandma didn’t tolerate complaints, either. If you started grumbling, she’d just point to another corner of the yard that needed attention.
Soon, the piles grew so large that we’d lay out a big plastic tarp, rake the leaves onto it, and haul it to the sandy road or the driveway. Dump, return, repeat. Over and over, all day long. It was a rhythm — rake, drag, dump — the kind of rhythm that sticks with you for life.
At some point, Grandma would have me drag the garden hose over, because once the piles were big enough, she’d set them ablaze. Watching those leaves catch fire was oddly satisfying — the flames danced and the smell of burning leaves filled the air. Judi, Joanne, and Merialice hated that smell, always groaning about how their hair was going to reek for days. Me? I liked it. It smelled like fall. Like family. Like work well done.
Chere never complained. She just followed directions and kept at it, steady as ever.
We’d get blisters, of course — raised, stinging reminders of our day’s labor. Grandma would tend to them with care, maybe a dab of ointment and a bandage, and then, without missing a beat, send us right back out. I learned to work through them — a lesson that served me well years later, marching miles in military boots.
The whole process lasted several days — maybe only three or four, but as kids, it felt like weeks. Looking back now, I can’t help but smile. The endless raking, the smell of smoke, the laughter and groaning — it all comes back as one of those golden-hued memories that time softens and sweetens.
Those days at Grandma Cooper’s Cottage taught us more than how to handle a rake. They taught us patience, teamwork, and endurance — the kind of quiet lessons that only come from doing hard things together.
And even now, when I catch the scent of burning leaves in the air, I can almost hear Grandma’s voice:
“Don’t dilly dally now, let’s get to it.”
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