Yard Work

I gazed out the picture window at my beloved sugar maple in the front yard. Its windfall sticks went into my barbecue for a delicious smoke flavor. In summer, it shaded almost our entire home, and its autumn color delighted my eyes with a rich orange that started at the very top, descending until the entire tree was a living flame.

That magnificent color lasted about a week before the leaves fell. First in ones and twos as the breeze took them, then in groups of tens and hundreds without the aid of the faintest puff of wind. They covered my front yard in a drab, brown carpet that gave no recollection of their former glory. The tree was bare, and I knew it was time.

“James! Ian! Get your coats. We have to rake the yard.” The boys, still preverbal at ages 3 and 4, ran to their jackets.

After hours of work, we’d made no discernible difference. But, with the boys kicking the leaves, it was understandable. I took out my frustration on the leaves, but Sandi tried a different tack.

“No, not yet!” She told them time and again. “We need to wait until we get a big pile!”

Sheer grit paid off, and we made a mountain of leaves. I went for the tarp to haul them out back, but when I returned, but the boys were nowhere in sight.

“Sandi, where are James and Ian?” She put her finger to her lips and pointed to the leaf pile.

Both boys jumped up from the leaves and giggled, hands over their heads and throwing the leaves to the wind. We looked at one another and shrugged. I took her hand and we made a running jump into the leaves.

The yard could wait one more day.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.