BRANCHING OUT

"You can rake the leaves in the front yard..."

Dad announces this more as a warning than as an invitation. Clearly, HIS job is raking leaves in the back, sides and (at least part of ) the front lawn. You'd think we had a spread the size of the Ponderosa the way he speaks, but, no, it's only a small, regular suburban yard. Still, it's HIS.

This means that I use the regulation- City- dispersed- only- brown- paper- leaf- bags. (No obiquitous "yard bags" allowed.) The City has specialized trucks that pick up the brown bags, once every few weeks, during the season, and the bags, along with the leaves, become instant mulch. (I guess the mulch gets delivered somewhere it is needed...perhaps I assume too much?  Hmmmm.) In any case, only these bags, approximately my height and width, are to be used. And they are to be stuffed to the topmost inch...then....compacted as much as is humanly possible...then, filled again, to the topmost inch. That wouldn't be such an issue except that my arms do not reach further than halfway into these paper bags. Stepping inside would rip them apart. Leaning too far into them would result in either, another wide tear at the top, OR my becoming part of the mulch. My only remedy is to partially fill the bottom, then, lay the sack on its side and shovel leaves into it, like it's a big mouth. When I fill it, I can squash the leaves about two feet down, but that's the limit. Dad looks at me skeptically as I haul the paper bags out to the leaves.

"Get the leaves under the bushes--your father can't reach those!" Mom has her own orders.

Out front, we have a giant maple tree on one side of the lawn. Against the front porch, on either side of the  steps, two huge banks of rhododendrum bushes are rooted. They were only about four feet tall throughout my eighteen years at this place. Now, they are about ten feet tall and their stems have become tree trunks in their own right. It is fairly easy for me to duck and actually to "get inside" these bushes. Raking them out is also fairly easy. Dad is a foot taller than I am, so I can see it would be problematic for him and his arthritic back.

So, I rake out what looks like one bag of leaves. I rake and rake and rake. Suddenly, this enormous mound is covering the front yard. There have to be five paper bags worth of dead leaves, now pulled out from under the bushes. I go back to the garage and ask Dad for extra bags.

"You know, we have to pay for these..." he clearly does not believe I have worked long enough to warrant the extra bags.

I don't argue. Just haul them out front. As I begin to shovel from the pile into the bags, a gust of wind barrels down the street. Suddenly, street leaves, gutter leaves, neighbors' leaves all combine! My perfectly raked mound is scattered and mingled and quadrupled on the lawn! (Then it hits me: you have to consider the wind like wave sets on the ocean; there are spaces between waves...a good surfer or kayaker knows to watch and wait....)So, I start to track the rhythmn of the wind. I'm feeling quite delighted with myself as I fill the fourth bag up and place it gently at the base of the maple tree. A handful of leaves remains on the walk. I surreptiously knock them into the gutter, knowing the next gust will take them down the street and out of my hair.

Suddenly, Dad is next to me, tapping my shoulder.  "It's against the law to rake into the street."

"It's only a handful of leaves!" I feel my face burn in exasperation (and guilt). There's no arguing. I step into the gutter and rescue the unlawful vegetation.  I toss them into the opened bag in front of me.

"You can fit half as much, again, in these bags!" Dad begins to squash the leaves down, demonstrating my wastefulness. (While also keeping an eye opened so I don't break another leaf law.)

We knock heads, arms; I get leaves between my teeth, (meanwhile inhaling the scent of earth and rain and whatever bugs have tried to hide in the compost), but we do stuff more vegetation in. Sweat begins a slow crawl down my back and between my spikey hair strands. Dad doesn't stop. His dried-apple doll cheeks are flushed but he matches me, armful for armful. I can't believe how competitive he is!

"Wait!" Dad grabs my aching wrist. "When you get a stick, you have to snap it to just the right length, or it prevents more leaves from squashing down--watch me!"  He wrangles a four inch twig out of the bag, reduces it to halves, then shoves it back.

Now I have to sift and snap and break and re-inter, as I lean over, practically falling head first into the bags. I am careful not bonk my bald father's head with my rake, or elbow, or whatever else is sticking out at the moment he dives in...And so we spend the afternoon...between gusts. (He already knew about the "wave sets"....)

Finally,we line up the last bag and he happily tucks over the inch at their tops, I collect our rakes. The lawn is spotless. The steps and front porch will stand my Mom's muster. Even the bushes have had their "heads" brushed off and are denuded of debris.

Just as I head back up to the garage, there is a tremendous blast of frigid air. The mighty maple out front, witness to three generations of Minns family members, (tapped for sap on more than one occasion  during a history project or science fair), home to several species of birds, shudders. A cascade of scarlet, orange-pink and fading yellow drop like a coverlet over the entire lawn. The front steps are quilted. The rhododendrum bushes look like they are wearing blankets. Even Dad sports several maple leaves on his shoulder.

"Let's call it a day," Dad sighs.

I agree, following him into the garage and wondering where they keep the aspirin.