“It is not every one,” said Elinor, “who has your passion for dead leaves.”
That sentence kept coming to mind as I raked this pile (as tall as my five year old) yesterday. Our family is taking a one-year sabbatical in Kentucky, and this is the first autumn I have spent in America for fourteen years. It’s also the first fall I can remember where I lived in a place that had leaves to rake. I may say that I had romanticized the activity, so indispensable to the idea of Autumn. It’s not all that fun, actually. Your hands get cold and more leaves fall as you rake so you can never get them all. And after they’re in a big pile, you have to wrestle them into rubbish bags–a process that leaves me panting and sweating. There must be some kind of trick to it that I haven’t figured out, because it’s harder than dressing a squirmy toddler. (I’m actually pretty good at that one–having six children develops certain skills.)
I wonder if Marianne would come and help me…or whether her passion for dead leaves would die after the first couple of bags?