Yesterday I was talking to my dad ( who is 85 years young ) and he was telling me that there was about a half inch of snow on the ground.I told him not to shovel it that , my sister Judy, would either find someone in the neighborhood to do it for him,or that she or my younger sister Dawn would do it. As we talked a memory of my childhood bubbled up from the dim past.
Back in the late 40's and the 50's during the fall, the leaves on the trees would turn brilliant colors ,and then in a span of a few weeks fall off.Thats when the neighood kids would spring into action, and with rakes in hand gladly attack the fallen leaves.We racked with a building sense of excitement.For at the end of our chore lay a prize that only came once a year.The leaves from each lawn would be gathered into a giant pile in the street and set afire. It was not the fire that we waited for, but the prize under the pile. Just before it was set afire,our fathers would place raw russet potatos under the pile. No they weren't wrapped. Then the pile was set to a match.As we watched the fire consume the leaves and the air filled with the smell of burning leaves, the anticaption of the feast to come was overwhelming.
Its to bad that the burning of leaves is no long allowed for it is a memory every child should have stored away for ones old age.But I guess thats the price we pay for being more aware of whats in the air we breath. Enough of that,back to the subject at hand.When the fire had reduced the leaves to ashes,all that would remain would be the potatos that were placed under the pile.The outside skin of the potato was black and burnt.We were so exicted we would not wait for them to cool off. So around the pike of burnt leaves stood children tossing a black and burnt potato from hand to hand.As we did so our laughter would fill the air, and smiles would form on the faces of our parents.When these blacken and burnt potatoes were cool enought to handle, we would break them open