Falling Leaves

“A wise old owl sat on an oak, the more he heard, the less he spoke; the less he spoke, the more he heard; why aren't we all like that wise old bird?”

I walked, kicking the leaves as I always did in fall, down the street. If you would have asked me to tell you about my small hometown, I would have undoubtedly said, boring. Main Street was lined with small businesses and shops, all brick-built and either one or two stories high.

“October 15th, 1889 edition,” the paper boy cried out in the center of town. I walked up to him and gave him a nickel, as I always did on Sundays to bring back to my mom. I wandered around downtown for a while, watching the wagons go past me and down the road to the General Store. Eventually, I went over to Pop’s which is a small store diagonal to the city bank. I walked in and was greeted by a “Hey Junior,” from John and Freddy. They always called me that because I was only twelve, and they were almost seventeen. I sat down on one of the stools and asked for a soda. Pop gave me one, and with a wink said, “This one’s on the house.” I sat there for a while talking to the guys and eventually realized it was almost six. I was supposed to be home at five, mom’s going to kill me.

I walked out of Pop’s after telling Johnny and Freddy “bye,” and made a right towards home. I noticed an old man sitting on a bench next to the store. His ancient yet amiable eyes followed me as I passed. Then I noticed his leg was missing and my eyes grew big, I couldn’t help it. I hurried my pace and continued towards home. When I arrived, I got the usual lecture about how my mother “nearly called the sheriff.” I was made to do extra dishes after dinner, and as I did them, I could not take my mind off of the old man without a leg. He had seemed nice, and as usual, curiosity got the best of me.

The next day after school, I made sure to walk by again at six, and sure enough, he was there with the same look, and even the same clothes. His eyes, I noted, were forest green, but seemed to go much deeper than an average human’s, as if this man’s eyes had seen books worth of stories. I continued walking however, continuing the same route home. Again, my mother berated me, and again, I was made to wash extra dishes, my little brother was getting off easy this week.

The next day, Tuesday, I repeated the same procedure except I repeatedly told myself in my mind to just sit down next to him and talk, so that’s what I did. I kicked the leaves as I walked until the old man was in sight. I stiffened and pumped out my chest a little as my dad did in public. I approached the bench, but this time, the old man’s wrinkled face was covered by a newspaper as he read. I saw my opportunity and sat down on the opposite side of the oak bench from him. Long moments of silence followed, and only the squeaking of wagons’ wheels and a faint, fall breeze ruffling the trees could be heard. He coughed and folded the newspaper over to the next page.

“Beautiful day isn’t it?” the old man asked, without so much of a glance up from the paper.

“Yes sir,” I replied, “beautiful.”

“I seen ya walk by the past couple days. I don’t bite, no need to be shy,” he said with a voice that was grainy.

“Sorry sir, I was going to stop, but your leg…” You idiot, I thought, why would you say that? “I’m really sorry sir, I didn’t mea-.”

“It’s alright, you’re just a boy, I understand. But you’re probably wonderin’ how I got it huh?” I nodded my head yes. “Well see, many years ago, I fought in the War, fought for the Union. My battalion charged the enemy line and the next thing I knew, I was lyin’ on my back in a medical tent without a leg, hulluva story, huh?”

“Uhm… well…”

He chuckled some and then set the newspaper on his lap and offered me his hand, “George Bowman.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment, then extended my hand to grip his and said, “Jimmy Harris.”

For the next month, I made a point to come and sit with George after school, and every day, he had a new story to tell. One day he told me about his Civil War days, and then about his beautiful wife, Mary, who died last year of the flu, who he missed dearly, and then of his dog he had when he was eight named Fraz. Without fail, he told me stories of everything about his life, and how, as he got older, less and less he’d talk to people, but he told me that’s how you learn, by listening. He told me how he used to jump on freight trains and ride them for miles, all over the country, and he told me the stories he heard of the other men on the trains. Oh how I loved those stories, and he could tell them with such joy or nostalgia or sadness, depending on the mood; they were what I lived for at that time.

Around November, the air really began to cool and snowflakes occasionally floated down from the gray sheet of clouds that seemed ever-present. It was a Sunday, a cold, gray Sunday and I walked kicking the leaves that were in abundance on the ground. I arrived at the now empty bench with my head wondering and I waited for George. I sat and watched the wagons pulled by horses go by. I sat and watched the sunset over the bank and the green hills beyond that. After a while, I became worried. It was now eight o’clock, and the light of the sky was gone entirely now, yet still no sign of George. I figured he had other obligations, so I made my trip home, kicking the leaves as I went. On Monday, after school I again returned to the bench to find it empty again, and a small, sad question began to stir in my mind, but I suppressed it. I sat and watched the wagons go by and gentlemen ride by on their horses. Then it passed me. A parade, I thought at first. Soldiers marched by, with their rifles slung over their shoulders. Then, a large horse-drawn wagon with the words UNDERTAKER painted on the sides, and a banner that read Rest In Peace, Sergeant George Bowman.

My eyes stung as I ran through the woods, snapping dead tree limbs as I went. I emerged at the edge of the lake with tears streaming down my cheeks. I knelt down and let them flow into the lake, sending ripples out over the water. I stood up and with a grunt threw a rock as far, and as hard as I could over the lake and watched it skip several times before submerging into the crystal blue reflection. I cried for a long time by the lake there and thought about George and his stories, and his wife, and his black and brown dog Fraz, and I cried some more because I couldn’t remember the stories as perfectly as he had told them, and it made me even sadder.

Eventually I got up and with my sleeve, wiped the tears from my face and began walking back towards town, kicking the leaves a little harder than I had before. A sudden hoot startled me and I looked up at the branches of the trees above me and an owl sat there, staring back at me with its large, somewhat curious eyes. It never spoke a word. I then remembered an old rhyme my father used to tell me when I was younger; “A wise old owl sat on an oak, the more he heard, the less he spoke; the less he spoke, the more he heard; why aren't we all like that wise old bird?”
I realized then that listening is one of the most valuable things in life because humans are amazing creatures and live amazing stories unique to everyone. I am an adult now, and remembering the old man still makes me cry at times, but I find hope in that maybe someday when I am old, some young boy will sit next to me on a timeworn oak bench in a small town somewhere and listen to the stories I now carry with me.