One morning, not long ago, I awoke with a new understanding of an expression I had heard before. Overnight my rectangular patch of green grass had transformed into an actual “blanket of leaves.” You can imagine my surprise when I looked out my kitchen window and could not see one speck of green anywhere in my yard.
To be completely fair, there had been some patches of leaves on the grass in the days leading up to this, but nothing to inspire me to go outside and remove them. Just a few harmless leaves, why disturb them? But on this one morning, there was no denying it; I had to get rid of them. I looked up. It wasn’t readily apparent that my great silver maple had dropped any leaves at all. This was a tad troublesome, as it looked to me like there were at least 100 trees worth of fallen leaves on my lawn already. More was coming, of that I could be sure.
As I pondered the new vista out my kitchen window, I realized this was the first year of my life that I have ever been solely responsible for leaf disposal. In my adolescence my parents owned a blower and had sufficient space to simply blow the leaves off their grass into the adjoining forest. And while I certainly appreciated the blowers’ efficiency, I am embarrassed to say that for all these years I have viewed raking leaves as quite a romantic pastime. It’s like a postcard for a picture perfect fall day: colorful autumn leaves drift slowly from the stately trees and a woman wrapped in a woolen sweater and bright knit hat peacefully rakes leaves in front of her white picket fence. Hot chocolate and perhaps an apple pie await her indoors. Beautiful, yes?
My husband, who grew up in leafy New England and knows better, happily handed over raking duty to me. I bundle up my daughter and grab that ancient instrument of leaf removal, the indomitable rake. There is a certain finesse to raking leaves I hadn’t realized before; a rhythm, a pattern. At first I am simply enjoying hauling them into a pile to let my two-year-old leap into. She shrieks with laughter. I take pictures.
After only a short time she loses interest, much faster than my own child self imagined. When I was her age we lived in southern California and although we had one magnificent tree in our small backyard, the ground was mostly a slab of concrete and bounding into piles of fallen leaves never entered our sphere of play. I’d always imagined that for a child it would be enormously fun.
No matter. I turn up the intensity with my dear rake. A wind has picked up and I notice my ever-growing pile of leaves has begun to flitter back across the lawn. My daughter is banging at the door to go inside. I do what I can with the piles I have made and go inside to reevaluate. To my dismay there is no hot chocolate or freshly baked apple pie. I’m starting to feel a little gypped.
The next morning I awake to find a brand new “blanket of leaves.” We repeat the process except this time my daughter loses interest after only a few minutes and I’m left alone, silently cursing this ancient instrument called the rake I had so adored just yesterday. My arms and back are a little stiff, but they are calling for snowfall tonight. And although I don’t know what happens to a blanket of leaves when snowfall covers them, I’m pretty sure its not good. I’m thinking of chucking the rake and asking my neighbor to borrow his leaf blower.
After days of this repeated pattern I look around with satisfaction. A terrific windstorm has hastened the process and just the last few holdouts cling to the silver maple in my backyard. Whenever the wind finally loosens the last remnants of a once vibrant fall, I suspect they will be spared the rake for this year.
Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. November 30, 2011
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