Memory: Howard and the Burnpile
Howard Cummins, mischief maker, around the year 2018
My Uncle Howard would have turned 100 this year. But just a few days before his 99th birthday, he lay down for a late-morning nap with the autumn sun slanting through the window and died in his sleep.
Howard always loudly proclaimed fall to be his favorite season. As a kid, I thought that was just weird. I thought, “What’s better than summer? Summer is everything.” But I get it now. I get why Howard liked reminding me that his September 22nd birthday fell on the autumn equinox, that fall was the best time of year, and that Hemingway was a genius for writing, “Best of all he loved the fall, the leaves yellow on the cottonwoods, leaves floating on the trout streams, and above the hills the high blue windless skies."
Today is one of those pretty autumn blue-sky days in Northern California. The leaves are floating, flickering and flashing. Brilliant yellow and reluctant still-green leaves are creating a second-summer komorebi dance that pierces my heart right through.
“Oh, Uncle Howard, I miss you!”
I have time-honeyed memories of walking through knee-deep fallen leaves with Howard. In fact, piles of leaves – anywhere, anytime – remind me of him. A version of autumn outdoor adventure he’d want me to share is how we – the two of us, and often with my little brother Ralph and/or my cousin Cathy – would wander down dirt roads, over fences, across fields, along railroad tracks, up scant mountain trails and into the deep woods near my grandmother’s house in Big Stone Gap, Virginia. While walking, Howard regaled us with stories he was making up on the spot or stories he’d told us before. Or he’d tell us the plots of movies we were too young to see or novels we were too young to read. He’d talk about the history of The Wildcat – the name for that part of Wise County. And he’d instruct us about the names of and the origins of the names of the wild plants and trees. Sometimes, as an expedient way of getting back down the mountain, we would all slide on our butts through steep chutes filled with leaves, not caring what lay underneath or what might cling to our clothing afterward.
A story of Howard’s fall follies that he wouldn’t encourage me to share – but which he’d endure (blushing) if cornered – concerns his fondness for setting things on fire. He had a striking enthusiasm for raking leaves and dead brush into big piles that could be burned at the end of an autumn day’s labor. He’d scour the landscape in search of anything dry or dying, including plants that might still have a chance of leading full and prosperous lives, given a little water in the spring. Once, when he was living with us in Woodbridge, Virginia, he spent a whole weekend detailing my parents’ huge yard and garden. Dad, Mom, Ralph and I were amazed at how much detritus he’d piled up and all the work he’d saved us. That is until just after dark on Sunday when he put a match to the lighter fluid he’d sprinkled on top. The back half of the backyard whooshed into flames, torching not only our trees but a couple of neighbors’ trees over the back fence. Seeing the sky alight with orange, the whole block turned out in a panic to form a bucket brigade, and we just barely managed to contain the blaze until the fire department screeched in to extinguish it thoroughly.
I’ve decided that Howard would be okay with me telling you this. He wouldn’t dispute my narrative, even though he’d be slightly embarrassed. I’m certain he secretly relished the whole burnpile-gone-out-of-control drama. He hadn’t intended to set the world on fire, but since it just happened to happen and since everything worked out, then why not enjoy it.
His mischievousness is something I love remembering about him – in fall, in winter, in spring, in summer. Pretty much all year round.
