Monologue for Woman, 50s
(free for students & auditions)

When I Was Young
from the comedy "Autumn Leaves"

By G. L. Horton
copyright © 1999 Geralyn Horton

Two versions of a monlogue from AUTUMN LEAVES: 1 min and 5 mins

JANET's monologue, 1 min version

JANET, fiftyish, Danny's landlady, is raking leaves into a pile in her front yard and singing to herself. She looks up, sees a neighbor, and stops singing, embarrassed.

It's a day to be-- I never knew what I was missing, all those years my husband raked the leaves. Raking's lovely, harmonious... like that Chinese thing- Tai Chi! The intense October colors, the tang in the air. When you pick up a heap of leaves, the smell's so ripe--. I can barely stand it.

You know what I miss, though? Burning leaves. When I was a girl, the men and boys would rake all the neighborhood leaves into a huge pile, and make a bonfire.

Dangerous?

Maybe it was. Though the worst I can remember is some singed grass and a toasted trouser cuff or two. Still, the pollution-- Oh, it's so hard to think of that glorious smell as pollution. We kids would grab a sputtering twig out of the fire and dash around like dragons, spewing smoke and sparks and shrieking to high heaven!

JANET's monologue -- 3 min version

JANET, fiftyish, is raking leaves into a pile in her front yard and singing quietly to herself. She looks up and sees a neighbor, stops singing, embarrassed.

Such a day. A day to be-- I never knew what I was missing, all those years my husband did the leaves. Raking's lovely, harmonious. A harmonious activity... like rowing , or dancing, or that Chinese thing-- like Tai Chi! There's the slanted sun, the intense October colors, the tang in the air. When I pick up a heap of leaves, hugging them, the earth smell's so ripe--. I feel so alive I can barely stand it.

A late fall day like this is a gift. No guilt allowed. Because you know in your bones that winter's right behind you.

You know what I miss most? Burning leaves. When I was a girl, the men and boys would rake all the neighborhood leaves into a huge pile, and make a bonfire.

It's against the law, now. Dangerous. Well... Maybe it was. Though the worst I can remember is some singed grass and a toasted trouser cuff or two.

Still, the pollution-- Oh, it's so hard to think of that glorious smell as pollution! Smoke so rich, so earthy, it worked a kind of magic. It turned the neighborhood into an Indian campground, at the edge of the forest primeval. We kids'd grab a sputtering twig out of the fire and dash around like dragons, spewing smoke and sparks and shrieking like sirens. There was the fun of leaf-messing, too. Jumping and dancing around, and chasing and sliding and throwing-- trying to stuff leaves by the handful down each other's shirt collars. Rolling around like dogs. Well, like dogs used to. Like dogs on a farm.

Around here, we've got strict leash laws.

When I think of the way we used to play in the woods--. We'd bike out together, kids and the dogs loping alongside, down the narrow cinder road-- my knees are still faintly gray from the ground-in cinders. Down the dirt path from the road end, then abandoning our bikes to embrace the woods. Well, not "embrace" exactly-rougher than that. Trees chopped and carved and swung down flat. Traps set, pits dug, streams dammed. Of course, all that no man's land is now subdivision. It scarcely matters what we did to the woods. That whole area was bulldozed and built over. The trees that are there now were bought from a nursery and planted. Strangers who don't speak English are brought in by truck when the owners are off at work to manicure the lawns and attack the fallen leaves with hand-held machines that sound as loud as jackhammers, and leave stinking choking clouds of burnt fuel in the afternoon air. Kids are carted by car to their tight-scheduled teams and activities. Shouts of laughter are out of place. Like raucous shrieking, are cause for alarm. Call the police. Alert the psychologists. Alas.

If I throw down my rake and begin to dance, will you report me?

Or just go inside and shut your door? Turn on your TV?

No, I don't mean it. Don't wish to alarm you. I understand we're all grown-ups. Or so we pretend. But on a day like this, so perfect, and maybe the last-- It's too much.

Run away, or join me.

I've got to play.

(She throws leaves into the air, and, singing, begins a joyous childish dance.)

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