Fall in Michigan

On Friday I announced it was time to rake. Hubby said fine. We decided to do the raking this morning.

We had our breakfast and then donned outerwear and tromped out to the side yard, rake, broom and yard waste bags in hand. We begin to rake. And to bag. Rake and bag. Rake and bag. Rake and bag. I notice that no one else is out raking their leaves. I store this in the compartment of my brain where the thought, “I am better than other humans because BLANK” is stored. Obviously, we cared more about how our lawn looked than anyone else on the whole street. I am a strong, proud, homeowner.

We rake and bag, rake and bag. One of the things that we DIDN’T want in a house, but got, was a corner lot. We have a lot of space to rake.

Two hours later, as we are rounding the last bit of front yard, a wind similar to that which sunk the Edmund Fitzgerald springs up. In fewer than fifteen minutes it looks like we never raked at all. I gaze contemplatively at the twenty yard waste bags in my garage and it occurs to me that I might have to park in the driveway until we can get rid of them on Friday.

“Hi there,” a man says as he pulls up. “Hi,” we reply. “I’m your neighbor that way,” he says, and points to a house kitty corner from our backyard. We make nice introductions. “Y’know,” he says cheerfully, “We always wait until the leaves have finished falling before we rake.” Hubby turns to me, “The trees still have leaves on them?”

I slink back to the house.