FALLING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

Falling leaves are the rule of the season.

The only place without a carpet of leaves is a parking garage.

But that’s Oregon, famous for trees.

When a tree loads up all year, say an oak tree with huge leaves, and it lets go?

You might get two feet of leaves.

What if it’s the neighbors trees that dump in your yard?

They’re your leaves now, pal.

Go ahead and redo your grass and have it die. Go ahead and put in artificial turf.

The trees with the leaves aren’t stopping the drop unless the trees leave.

Trees die, burn, or fall over from a micro-burst of tornado strength wind.

I had two huge maples, hundred year maples, that stood as a barrier between my house and the neighbors.

One day I left for an hour and came back to find them both crashed.

A micro-burst blew thought and took them down.

It was a mess, but they didn’t fall on a house.

My Oregon wasn’t quite as green after that.

 

The Lonely Leaves

Some yards have massive trees, and if they’re oak, massive leaves.

They cover the grass, the roof, lay on the fence and foundation.

You’ve got to be on it all the time to prevent damage.

Those cute houses with an un-mowed yard, mossy roofs and driveways, that look like a house from a fairy tale?

They’re going to collapse sooner than later and the person inside will die from what’s called an accident.

It’s an accident called neglect.

But what about the houses and property covered in leaves an ankle high in depth?

The neighbors know the young family who live there, but wonder about some old man scooping street leaves into bags in the dark?

I had a neighbor who mowed his yard just before ten at night. It was a test to see who would tell him to stop.

The old codger scooping leaves was making no noise, and it was only seven, but a November kind of seven, a dark seven.

I was that old fart at my kid’s house scooping leaves up with hand rakes while the kid was inside tending to a leaky dog and a rowdy kid.

Sure I could have stopped, but that’s not our routine.

Could have stopped after two huge bags; could have stopped after four, or six, or eight.

Ten contractor bags later we called it. (We also ran out of beer.)

 

Falling Leaves? When Does It End

Here in Oregon, every season is complaining season.

Oh, it’s so hot. Another day of this unbearable heat.

Followed by: I’m not ready for cold weather. Why can’t we have another week of warm weather?

After that: When is this rain ever going to end.

Since I grew up in North Bend, the town next to Coos Bay, I never complain about the weather.

If I did I’d start with the wind, then the sand, and finish with the sand and wind combined with rain.

That’s what happens when you live next to a sand dune in two different houses.

Complaining about leaves? Nope. Get in there and grind.

You’re going to do a series of squats, with balance practice, and enhanced coordination.

Sounds like a fitness class you don’t have to pay for if you have the right attitude.

My attitude was fine, thank you, but the drivers passing by had to feel sorry for a poor old gray-haired guy out in the cold, wet, and dark.

Put the same scene in downtown Portland and it would look sad.

Little did the passers by know that when I finished I was going inside, cleaning up, and settling into a recliner couch with dogs and kids and tacos while the Browns and Steelers played their Thursday Night Football game in a driving snow storm.

Now they looked miserable and I felt a little sorry for them while I was snuggled in warm and cuddly.

What about those falling leaves?

What about your leaves, and don’t say you live in a parking garage.