by Al Drinkle
A common recommendation as to how to manage fallen leaves in autumn is to simply ignore them. The idea is that as they decompose, they'll nourish one's yard, helping to provide the requisite nutrients for a healthy lawn in the spring. It doesn't hurt that this strategy also appeals to humanity's general propensity towards laziness—and don't even get me started on leaf blowers. However, I can't imagine that supporters of this school of leaf management have seven large ash trees in their yard like I do.
In years past, I tended to sabotage a full weekend by committing to the entire task of leaf management during one brain-numbing session. This year I've been chipping away at it bit by bit, though I'm not actually sure that the prolongation of this intellectually insulting task is positive for my mental health. What was once a weekend-ruining project has now become a monotonous nightly routine. The compostable bags with their narrow openings and annoyingly finite capacities are a nuisance, and it’s much more satisfying to lift greater quantities with greater success into the green bin, its top splayed like a libidinous goddess of compost. Alas, I can only fill the green bin once per week… or so I thought.
One morning last week, as the stars twinkled through the silhouettes of arboreal skeletons, I scuttled through the alleyways with a flashlight in search of green bins that hadn’t been filled to capacity. Collection time was only a few hours away, and I was confident that nobody (else) intended to spend their frosty, pre-dawn hours invested in leaf cleanup. So as the denizens of my neighborhood enjoyed the warmth and comfort of their beds, I was clattering innumerable green bins down the rutted alley, filling them with leaves from my yard and returning them to their rightful curbs. By the time most people leave for work, their bins will be empty again and none will be the wiser to my clandestine operation.
Autumn is earth’s satisfied exhalation, and I love her evocative sunsets. Aromas and emotions alike reach their summits of vividity as we stoically acquiesce winter’s approach, and I tell myself that the absurd and debasing act of leaf collection somehow embodies this beauty too. I could be right and I could be wrong, but many good bottles will empty before I have to deliberate upon it again.
