Last Updated on July 17, 2013 by James Dziezynski
Oh, did I hate raking leaves as a kid! Never mind the splendor of hundreds-of-years old New England oak trees, the seemingly endless leafy discharge was a lesson in landscaping futility. Ours was a large yard entirely shaded by a phalanx of towering hardwood trees. Hours of scooping up leaves into garbage cans and onto tarps then dragging them into the woods wouldn’t have been so bad if the entire process didn’t have to be repeated several times a month. And remember, this was in the days before Podcasts.
As a result, I developed a disdain for rakes. If we could have hired a few burly lumberjacks to fell the trees and be done with them completely, I would have gladly offered them my last dollar. So it goes with those years of adolescence, when any infringement on your time inflicts a disproportionate amount of angst into that complicated and wonderful phase of life. Leaves epitomized the distracting and burdensome task that stood in the way of all that potential… stuff.
Rounding the corner from high school to college, I worked at several landscaping companies, where I began to appreciate a yard full of leaves. The homes my company tended were in the wealthiest part of the Connecticut, dwarfing my parents’ modest yard and presenting a veritable ocean of vivid foliage to be hauled away. Maybe it was the fact I was being paid to be there, but I began to look forward to the autumn leaf harvest. It was a simple task, almost Zen, and even with the furious roar of leaf blowers ringing in my ears there was something incredibly soothing in the act. Scooping up the colorful discharge when there was a slight chill in the air was oddly peaceful. If I happened to be raking at sunset, the sky mirrored the piebald carpet and if you blurred your eyes just a little, the entire world became a sparkling fire of red, orange and yellow.
Only recently have I moved from condo living to having a couple of small yards out here in Colorado. By sheer volume, the leaves barely register by New England standards. Perhaps 2-3 hours tops and maybe a drive into the woods to dump a few garbage bags. Strangely, I was eager to get out there and swoosh up the neat piles. I longed for a bigger yard to lose myself for a few hours.
It’s a funny transition, isn’t it? Being young, there was an entire world of events and drama awaiting. Even if you don’t admit it, there’s a vital need to be some part of all that, whatever it is – or was. There’s hundreds of roads not taken in young adulthood and every hindrance means missing out on some section of that experience.
But now, there’s an equally vital need to step out of life, out of the daily predictable patterns and static fatigue of the work week. Leaves offer an excuse to be off the radar. I liken it to the joy of a long flight if only to have a valid reason to read a book uninterrupted. It’s the suburban equivalent to a Japanese rock garden. A little nature goes a long way in reconnecting us to peaceful states. There’s a wonderful flow and rhythm. And when the leaves have all been raked and hauled away, there is a fruitful, barren canvas that is ready for winter to brush its icy palette across the land so that spring may rise again when the days are long.
