Each fall when it is time to begin raking leaves, there are always a few moments when I wonder why I ever sold my super duper combination leaf vac-blower-mulcher.
But then I remember the "why".
The year we bought our house, we also purchased that super duper combination leaf vac-blower-mulcher. I thought it would be a PRACTICAL decision. Despite having a fairly small yard, there were plenty of trees and I anticipated filling MANY bags of leaves. Use of power equipment would allow us to EFFICIENTLY and QUICKLY remove leaves.
So that 1st year, my son and I had great fun blowing the leaves into piles ... then using the vacuum hose to gather up all the leaves ... while the mulcher did what mulchers do. There were also a few invisible monsters captured and medieval dragons slayed in our battle to re-capture the lawn. Yet I was surprised by the number of leaf bags that still had to be carted to the compost site – as well as the amount of time actually required to get the yard ready for winter.
The 2nd year, doing the yard work didn't contain as much enthusiasm and imagination as it had the year prior. The 3rd year, the prospect of leaf removal was viewed with a certain amount of dread. And the holes in the bag (caused by sticks captured along with 2 years' worth of invisible monsters) promised to reduce the efficiency and speed of leaf removal.
The 4th year, I decided to pull out the rakes.
So the rakes came out and piles of leaves were built. It was then I noticed that my son was actually ENJOYING our time of leaf raking. And on more than one occasion, when I thought he was actually raking and bagging, I'd see him playing "hide-and-seek" (among the leaf piles) with the family dog or running and leaping into the mounds, thereby undoing all of his hard leaf raking work. Periodically we'd engage in Mom-and-Son chats. We'd talk about school, friendships, his worries, dreams and plans ... discuss the wild critters that shared the yard ... take time to look at the trees and wonder about the different colors and shapes of individual leaves. And, as with that first year, there would be the occasional pursuit of a dragon or perhaps, an invisible monster to capture.
Looking back on those days (when I raced to get the yard "ready" for winter), I tend to forget the number of leaves bagged. I can hardly recall the number of trips to the compost pile. But what I do remember are the quiet chats ... the important topics casually covered ... the giggles and laughter ... the times of silence peacefully enjoyed.
But then my Son did what Sons are supposed to do. He grew up. And raking became more a chore and less a play. Eventually, my Son moved away to begin a new life and career.
Each fall, as I rake the leaves in my little postage stamp of a yard, I have a moment when I wonder why I ever sold the super duper combination leaf vac-blower-mulcher. But then I remember watching my son and our little Shih Tzu chase each other through big piles of leaves. And I see a young boy changing and growing into a man. Then I take a few moments to look (with that remembered sense of wonder) at the various shapes and colors of individual leaves that fill my yard.
Last night, a young Mother and her son stopped by my yard for a chat. The young boy looked around at all the leaves in my yard. Then he turned to me and said,
"You know. I could help you rake those leaves. And I'll even bring my own rake."
So we had a little conversation about the business of leaf raking (as young Mother looked on) and came to the agreement that I could certainly benefit by his help.
I'm looking forward to leaf raking this year.
It's been awhile since I've had any help capturing the invisible aliens and dragons in my yard.
I'm going to apologize, in advance, for posting a long rhyme instead of a short one. But this rhyme has been awhile in the making. The event that inspired the rhyme happened in July. The illustrations were noodled a few weeks ago (during a lull between phone calls). It was only recently I started thinking about the rhyme itself. This seems to happen every time Great Auntie enters the picture.
She (like me) is NOT a woman of few words.
Now. Let me tell you the story behind "A Tattered Picture Book".
One morning in July, I made my weekly trek to the laundromat. It was great timing on my part – I only had to compete with 1 person for the large capacity washing machines. Having once washed loads of dirty diapers and kids' clothing, I graciously conceded the biggest machines to the young mother who was accompanied by her small daughter and infant-in-stroller (along with SEVERAL baskets of dirty laundry).
While Young Mom took care of the dirty clothes, her little daughter took care of the baby. The girl had a stack of picture books and was reading the books – one by one – to her little brother. The baby did what babies do: kicked his legs and waved his arms ... chortled and gurgled ... stuck his fist in his mouth ... hollered occasionally ... and grabbed at whatever toy was close enough for his tiny fingers to grab hold of and stick in his mouth or wave in the air.
Big Sister (who looked as if she might be only 5 or 6), would periodically hold the book up close to the baby's face and then pull it away the minute Baby decided the book might be good to grab and gnaw upon. Once in awhile, she'd put the book down and stick her head into the carriage (and make big sister goo-goo noises at the baby to make him laugh).
Mom proved what kids have always suspected (but only Mothers know for sure) – she had 3 eyes. Two kept an eagle eye on the kids and this strange old woman (me, the only other person in the laundromat). The third eye was for the laundry which, as any Mother could tell you after having at least 1 child in diapers (and most certainly after 2), can be done with one eye closed and/or in one's sleep.
Finally, the little girl noticed me and showed me the book she was reading. So we talked for a little bit. And all the while, Big Sister kept 1 eye on the baby and 1 eye on me (i.e., early training in case 1 day she needs 3 eyes). During our conversation, Baby kept his eyes on his big sister (while doing what babies always do: smiled, chortled, gurgled, hollered, kicked, etc).
Then I said to the little girl, "Oh my. That baby certainly loves you and knows you love him!"
Big Sister calmly replied, "I know. And do you know who else loves the baby?"
I smiled a little, anticipating the answer of "Mommy", "Daddy", "Grandpa", "Grandma" or perhaps even "Great Auntie" (or the family pet). So I responded with, "No. Who else loves the baby?"
She gazed at me for a moment and in that matter-of-fact tone (used only by small children who believe certain adults are in dire need of being taught some wisdom), Big Sister said,
"God loves the baby."
There's not much that can make me speechless. I thought for a few seconds as the little girl looked at me, waiting for my reply. And for once, I found myself capable of being a woman of few words:
"I know, honey. God loves the baby as much as God loves you."
The little girl dismissed me with a sweet smile and went back to reading a picture book to her baby brother.
As for the Young Mother of this story? Well, she had never stopped keeping watch over her beloved children – and the laundry still got done.
