Howdy, folks. Glen Blamstead here. I raked up all the leaves in the yard last Saturday. The trees took that as a challenge.
I want to be clear that I did not start this. I'm a peaceful man. All I wanted was a clean yard for about one afternoon, the way you want a clean truck for about one afternoon before somebody puts a coffee cup on the dash and a bag of bolts on the seat. That's all. One afternoon of looking like a man who has his life together.
We've got four big maples and one old oak around the house here outside Mora. Every October they put on a show. Red, orange, that gold color you only get for about two weeks. People drive by slow to look at them. And every October, right after the show, those trees drop everything they own on my lawn like teenagers coming home from school.
So Saturday morning I got out there with the rake, the leaf blower, and a stack of those big paper bags. Took me most of the day. I raked. I blew. I raked what I'd blown. I bagged. By four o'clock I had eleven bags lined up by the garage like soldiers, and a lawn so green and clean you could have played a round of golf on it, if you were the kind of person who golfs badly, which I am.
I stood there with my hands on my hips, admiring my work. I even took a picture. I don't take pictures of anything. I took a picture of my lawn.
Round Two
Sunday morning I walked out with my coffee, and I want you to understand I'm not exaggerating when I say that yard looked like I'd never touched it. Not a blade of grass showing. Overnight, the wind had come through and every one of those trees had emptied its pockets. The oak, which normally holds onto its leaves until about March out of pure stubbornness, had decided this was the year to let go. Right onto the spot where I'd been standing to take my picture.
It felt personal. It felt like the trees had been watching me rake all day, waiting. Like they'd held a little meeting after dark and agreed to wait until I'd bagged the last bag.
I told the crew about it Monday morning at the shop. I thought I'd get some sympathy. I did not get sympathy. One of the young guys asked why I didn't just wait until all the leaves were down before raking. I told him that was a very reasonable idea, and that reasonable ideas have never been my strong suit. The foreman said he doesn't rake at all, he just mows them up and calls it mulch. I asked him how his yard looks. He said it looks like a man who has given up. He said it with real peace in his voice. I was a little jealous.
The Committee Weighs In
My wife's position on the matter is that the trees were here first. That's true. They were here long before the house, and long before me. I pointed out that I was the one paying the property taxes. She pointed out that the trees provide shade, oxygen, and a very nice view out the kitchen window, and that I provide mostly commentary. I didn't have a good answer for that, so I went back outside.
Our dog, a beagle mix with strong opinions, loves the leaves. She doesn't care how they got there. She just runs through the piles, rolls around, comes inside wearing about half the yard, and shakes it off in the hallway. So technically some of my leaves are now indoor leaves. I'm told that's progress.
It's the same at our building sites this time of year. We'll set the trusses on a new pole barn, the crew will sweep the slab clean, and by the next morning there's a fresh layer of leaves blown in from the tree line like nobody ever swept it. We've learned to just plan on it. Fall in Kanabec County comes with a cleanup crew of its own, and they work against you.
Where Things Stand
As of this writing, I've raked the yard three times. I've filled twenty-six bags. The trees, from what I can tell, still have plenty of material left. The oak in particular seems to be pacing itself. I believe it's waiting for the snow, so it can drop the rest on top and I'll have to deal with soggy leaves come April. That's the long game. That oak has been playing it for sixty years and it's very good at it.
So I've made my peace. I'll rake when they're all down, which, if history is any guide, will be about the Tuesday before the first real snow. Until then, I'm enjoying the colors, the cool mornings, and the sound of leaves crunching under my boots on the way to the truck.
If you're thinking about a new shop or pole barn before the snow flies, stop by Sherman in Mora or holler at us. Bring your rake if you want. We've got plenty of leaves to share.
