.jpg)
He has liked raking leaves for as long as I’ve known him. He’s never bagged a single one, doesn’t burn them either, he just rakes them to the edge of the yard making a row of humped up leaves.
His nearest neighbor is better than a quarter mile away, and as the wind decides to blow, sometimes so does his freshly raked leaves, no matter he will touch up the listless, oh it’s just a bit more raking.
And the pile dads and moms make for their kids to jump in, he’s not a leaf piler, just a raker. The very rake itself, metal tendrils, three of which could use a serious straightening, but it certainly gets the job accomplished. We sit, he’s done for the afternoon, I didn’t rake this year, I’ve helped in the past. This fall for some reason, the raking of leaves would hasten in my head the swiftness of the seasons departure, so not raking for me, maybe if only in my head, I’m holding the days back just a small bit.
He points at a maple, one of many about the lawn, perhaps a quarter turned, still nicely leafed out. Ya know, when that tree loses its leaves, I have to pluck a handful off the ground, especially after a rain, and whiff them into my nose. It’s the only tree in the yard I do that with.
- The Trout Whisperer
