3 Pieces of Silver

I was six.
It was fall, late October.
Saturday afternoon, about four.
Overcast, blustery, invigorating, alive,
the day beckoned.

Roughly twelve children
above and below my age
gathered outside the Osborne?s
vast, yawning, open driveway door.
Framed by rakes, brooms, boxes, assorted tools, benches, garbage cans, and a
meticulously painted flock of dangling-by-string-from-ceiling mallard decoys,
the silver-haired Dr. Osborne,
hypnotic, warm, authoritative,
performed the alchemy
of making the humdrum chore of raking leaves
into a rare, exotic and adventurous lark.
In his element
as charismatic leader of an exuberant if undoubtedly youthful labor force,
the suburban Merlin
divided us into pairs and the odd trio,
deftly assigned the upcoming work areas,
walked confidently amongst the industrious troops
while perpetually
extolling, encouraging, advising.
We all,
if ever acknowledged by him,
swelled with pride,
and basking in the envious glances of others,
redoubled our efforts.

My designated partner was Charlie, the youngest Osborne.
For several years our lives merged like the confluence of two bubbling streams.
In an affectionate circle of mutual intuition,
we wore the same clothes, feelings, ideas;
shared the same likes, dislikes, food;
selflessly and enthusiastically put the other first,
plunged into empathy at the other?s joy or pain,
real or imagined;
effusively finished the other?s incomplete sentences;
and in general,
wallowed in such a delicious, infectious ?contact high?,
even our chronically ignoring parents bemusedly acknowledged
we were as inseparable as a two yolk egg.

On this day we went halvesies with a pair of work gloves.
Given a rake which dwarfed us,
we square danced
between
gripping the handle in its midriff while awkwardly yet fervidly raking,
and
espying, shouting, laughing and leading the other to the scattered, dead leaves.

It did not take long for a burgeoning, rustling leaf-pyre to take shape.
We breathlessly watched
Dr. Osborne dispense to a few lucky ones,
blue-tipped Strike Anywhere matchsticks,
who in turn,
after encircling with an exaggerated, self-conscious sense of importance,
scratched out raspy, fiery sparks.

The sublime, distinctive aroma of burning autumn leaves wafted.
The flames grew
and we
helter-skeltered
gleefully chasing and stomping high-flying sparks,
which flew willy-nilly
like unseasonable and capricious fire-flies,
until the wind abruptly died
and we
in swift metamorphosis
leaning on rakes or arms akimbo over each others? shoulders,
became reverential, still,
reflecting the crackling warmth.

The fire?s primordial orange flickered synchronistic
with Dr. Osborne?s deep, calm almost biblical voice,
as he thanked us all.
Taking off his gloves
he pulled a small muslin sack out of a jacket pocket.
We gasped silently
as he solemnly bestowed
three brand new, sparkling silver 50 cent pieces
in our open, suppliant palms.

To our magical mind this was not financial reimbursement for our labor
but rather
a once and future talisman
to commemorate
our communal,light-hearted, mystical industry.
The encroaching night, the dying embers,
the grim knowledge of the inevitable return to our separate homes,
all these weighty misgivings were annulled
by the burnished coins? real and metaphorical light.

Later on at bedtime, in a feigned sleep,
as moonlight streamed through my window,
I lay fetal
gazing upon and fingering rapturously
the silver treasure.
I then conceived
the inviolable promise
to savor for life
the afternoon's euphoric
                                                                     communion.