Some choose to rake; others have raking foisted upon them. I don’t quite know where I am in that, though I should.
And that’s a lie.
I know very well where I stand in that because I foolishly bought into the whole “have a big yard” thing years ago when we mortgaged our future for this plot of land. It was woodsy and quiet and badly overgrown from too many previous owners who had it as a secondary residence and let it get out of hand.
I was young then, strong back and all of that, so I went forth and subdued the land.
Which is also a lie.
I merely made life more arduous and the seasonal work neverending. Which brings us to Fall, and the beautiful colors and falling leaves and cool gentle evenings growing more brisk by the day. If Fall is no more than the day trip through the foliage and remarking on the many hues to be appreciated, then yes, Fall is a beautiful time. If Fall is the detritus of many large trees shedding their summer waste onto your idiotic head then not so much.
Like most suburban caretakers of the land, I have my many implements with which to make conquest over the hoard of leaves and needles that cover every square foot of this quarter acre lot, which includes the roof, which in our wet and cool Fall climate becomes slick and dangerous and a siren’s call to a quick and bloody end to these annual maelstroms…
But I digest.
Plus my wife forbids me from plummeting to my death.
Such is life.
Mercifully, the neighbors taking their daily constitutions for their own health or to walk the dog(s), have the good sense not to comment too vociferously on my self-inflicted plight-this is in opposition to their many “oh, your yard looks so wonderful” comments in the Spring. Few-actually none-have any interest in helping me man the rakes. And I do not wish them ill, it is my lot and my burden to bear. To bear a grudge is to be small in character, quaint though that seems in these times…
So, as is my task, I shall make my piles and work through the sequential dumpings, because trees have their own time tables and are rarely in sync on such things, of cedars and pines, and alders and maples, and every other plant in the yard, as they all yield their surplus big and small. And like Sisyphus I shall endeavor to persevere in my semi-distinct annual ritual of raking the yard.
Tis the season…
©2019 David William Pearce
David William Pearce, Writer 