This is the house on 18th Street A where I grew up. We had three elm trees in the front yard, all great for climbing. Each boy had his own tree, so we had occasional turf or tree battles.
My mother had the house painted red, bright red. To get dropped off at the right house, all I had to do was tell the driver, "I live in the red house." The response was always, "The red house? You live there?" The color made it a celebrity house.
In the back yard we had a giant maple tree, cut down to a massive stump the last time I looked.
The four trees generated mounds of leaves, which we were paid to rake. One fine autumn a relative gave us jars of popcorn seed and popcorn wire baskets. We raked leaves, set them on fire, and popped corn, a scene to make Tom Sawyer jealous.
I remember the clouds of burning leaf smoke filling the air each autumn. No one thought anything of filling the street with leaves and setting them on fire. The aroma meant fall was peaking and winter was around the corner.
