I swept a dozen leaves from the back deck and gazed at the bright green leaves still firmly attached on the surrounding trees. Ah, early October in Georgia: you are a stealthy, patient little minx.
In mid-October I swept several dozen leaves from the deck and then three hours later after a big gust of wind, swept the deck again. The colors of the trees were beginning to turn in earnest. Ah, mid-October in Georgia: you are an encroaching little ferret.
By Halloween the surrounding trees were awash in bright golds and blazing reds and oranges, but a few were still green and the deck was covered in an evidence of color. Late October in Georgia: you are an annoying little witch.
Early November the winds blew half the leaves off the surrounding trees and dumped the damn things all over the deck, then rained on them so they clung to the painted wood like chiggers on velvet and could not be swept away with the brush of a broom, nor blown off with a leaf blower. Even the backwash from a freakin’ jet plane could not have knocked those soggy little slip-and-fall-helpers off the deck. Ah November in Georgia, you are a straight-up bitch.
There’s no sugar-coating thick enough to cover the sour smell of Old Leaves, so everything has to get scraped clean before it sets like cement. If they were just pretty I wouldn’t mind, or if they’d just stay on the trees that would be even better. But no, they fall down and try their best to turn the entire surface of Georgia into one big mulch pile. Forget about those picturesque Fun-With-Dick-And-Jane scenes of Father raking the leaves for the kiddies to play in. Dick and Jane played in magical leaf piles that had no sharp sticks and broken branches, PLUS they obviously did not live in Georgia because Dick never got brained by a shower of acorns the size of your thumb, and Jane never sat on a pine cone or got poked in the cheek by pine straw. Let’s not forget the contributions Spot makes in this Norman Rockwellesque scene!
See Dick. See Dick go to the patio to scrape the bottoms of his shoes. Scrape, Dick, Scrape! Get that shit off before you come into this house, young man. I wanted to get you a goldfish but Noooo, you and Father just had to get a dog.
And complaining about falling leaves does no good. Leaves fall; that ‘s why it’s called Fall and not Oh There Are Still Leaves On The Trees Well When Are They Going To Retract Back Into The Branches. Falling leaves are why Autumn is such a reflective time of year, as opposed to Spring is Busting Out Of Dreary Winter, Summer is There Isn’t Enough Green Crayola In The World Mommy and Winter is Oh Swell All The Leaves Are Gone And We Can See Into The Back of The Neighbor’s House Now And He Really Needs To Wear A Bathrobe Please Draw The Shade Until Spring. In fact, let’s rename Spring: Thank God The Buds Are Returning Because My Eyes Were Burning After The Shades Refused To Budge.
Fall is nature’s strip show, only without the sexy dancing and overpriced booze. This would suggest Lady Ents were willow trees who used their long flowing branches like fan dancers used feather fans. Professor Tolkien left that part out of the Lord of the Rings, or perhaps England doesn’t have the sort of willow trees we do here in Georgia. They have Willow Trees featured in three plays by Shakespeare no less, while here in the colonies our willow trees just dance by the river all summer and then take it all off come fall.
That’s the sort of ruminations autumn gives me, when hot morning coffee can be laced with just the right amount of liquid enhancement to greet the chill of the day.
Wait I changed my mind; I LOVE autumn. Screw the leaves, I’ll scrape them off the deck come spring. Pass the coffee pot.