Gingko Leaf Epiphany on Pittsburgh’s Streets, 1960
Whenever I see golden gingko leaves, no matter where I am or how old I am, I imagine myself at age twelve, again alone, walking the mile or so from Winebiddle Avenue, down to Penn Avenue, following that to Highland Avenue and on to my grandmother’s to spend the afternoon with her.
My Grandmother’s house was a long walk from school, but I loved making it—the heady delight of walking alone, and feeling oh so grown up because of it, overrode the any discomfort of my prickling leg muscles as I trod down the sidewalk, or the frisson of fear I felt as I quickly walked by the two or three blocks of shuttered stores on Penn Avenue. Not even autumnal rains, whose damp often sneaked through my jacket, deterred me from my plans to walk, because I knew when I got to Grandma’s, warm soup awaited.
In fact, I best loved walking on the rainy autumn days because the broken sidewalk was guarded by a line of golden ginkgo sentinels. The shape of these leaves, golden fans, waved over me as I walked by in the chill breeze, as if in homage. And if those autumnal rains were accompanied by wind, the leaves fell and gilded block after block of sidewalk, creating patterns artists could only aspire to achieve.
As I walked, stepping between those slippery fans, I’d think about how all over my world the leaves were changing color and deserting their home trees, some released by the tree because it was simply time to let them go, others, urged away from branches by the wind, dropping down. Gingko’s arc of wind born flight, even on a rainy, breezy day was a short one—they arranged themselves on the sidewalk but not far from their mother tree.
I always chose to walk, even in the rain, saving the bus fare my mother gave me, holding my books, umbrella, lightly balancing all without even thinking the way the young can do.
My arc of freedom was extended by this walk. At the time, I did not fully realize how this would fit in to my future of stepping away from home, going places on my own, loving, loving independence, even when accompanied by a frisson of difficulty or fear.
I simply enjoyed each step, celebrated each intersection, knowing my steps would bring me to grandma’s house where I would hear stories of travel, and trials, and rest in the firm knowledge of her unconditional love, the love that would, in future years, give me confidence to ride the breezes down paths even farther from home and in time, with breezes of own making, make my own way.
