The last two weeks of October were as warm as any in September. The trees clenched their green and yellow hands waiting for the cold shock to signal it was time to let go until they just gave up. The breezes finally shook the leaves free and covered the lawn.
|truck full of leaves|
The neighborhood wakes up to a sound like a hundred souped-up hair dryers at a beauty pageant. I compared the current cacaphony to last year's rural fall -- a whisper of leaves dropping, and the scritch, scratch of the rake. Today's beauty is marred by a barrage of noise, peace disturbed.
We wanted to help our host family clear their yard and bought a light weight plastic rake with wide, wide red tines. We danced a two step around the yard. Bill scooped, I bagged. (Burning is not allowed here.) We enjoyed the distinct autumn ritual, crunching through ankle high dry leaves. It took two of us about an hour to fill three bags, with time out for the three year old to be buried under a pile, lie on top of a pile, and bury his dinosaur then find it again. We enjoyed the sun on our backs, the rhythmic movement, the unique smell of disintegrating leaves--the quiet.
Of course the next day, there were many more on the ground. Our oldest grandson grabbed the rake to make a dive pile. Later I was confounded to see our three trophy bags limp and empty. He'd "needed" them to augment the mound they wanted to jump into.
Well, I'd had my fun, and they had theirs.