Last week, I spent the better part of the afternoon blowing leaves.
It was satisfying in the same way I find ironing relaxing or running my hand back and forth over a velvet pillow to watch the nap change shades. Lulling. Relaxing. I took a little nap afterwords.
As a child of the suburbs, leaf maintenance is something new for me. I thought I owed it to them, really. They had given me quite a show. I watched them dancing and swaying, in their autumnal costumes, day after day. They deserved to be gently, but thoroughly, blown.
The problem is, a week later, they need to be blown again.
Is that the deal? Every week? Seriously? Didn’t I just do this?
I think part of the problem is that I’m blowing these leaves when everyone knows they need to be sucked. When you just blow them, no matter how careful and attentive you are, some just dribble out. There’s always a little trail of leaves left behind. Evidence of the uncommitted.
Still, can’t we just specify a couple of “really special days” so we both know it’s coming? The leaves can spread out all over the place and I have time to put a little oil on my blower. Seems like a win-win.
But, oh no..... Right now those trees are dropping leaves faster than Candi Schmersma’s panties on Prom Night. Waving their branches around trying to get my attention. Truth is, they still look pretty good. They’ve lost a lot of leaves but, it’s okay. They know I remember when they were full of youthful, vibrant foliage.
I’ll give in and blow them. I always do.