LAST SUNDAY, I was raking leaves, and the Ravens were winning. It seemed like a perfect fall afternoon.
Sunset came early and, as I snapped off the transistor radio that had informed me the Ravens had secured a victory, I paused to admire the backyard patio. It was leaf-free.
By the next morning, however, the patio I had been so proud of - clean and well-kept - had become a sea of sodden leaves. During the night, the winds had blown, rain had fallen, and so had a fresh batch of leaves. It was as if the trees were reminding me that when it comes to me vs. foliage, leaves rule.
A less-experienced sort might have cried in his coffee. But I knew this was one of the seasonal dances between man and nature that occur this time of year.
One is the potted plant shuffle. Sometime after Halloween, the big, heavy plants - geraniums, spider plants, ferns - that thrived outdoors during the summer have to be carried inside the house to avoid getting hit by killer frost. Somewhere in the genetic code it is written that the female of the household, your nurturing type, determines when the potted plants come inside. The male, your basic beast of burden, ends up lugging the heavy plants through the house. This set piece works fine as long as there is only one lugging. But trouble comes when there are requests for repeat performances. One night, a plant gets lugged to the safety of the basement. The next day, it has to be carried back out to the sunshine. A following night when the forecast calls for frost, it has to retreat to the basement. Pretty soon, a fella gets tired of doing this two-step. This week, for instance, when I heard the TV weather person mention the words "temperatures in the low 30s," I hid in the closet.
Another seasonal dance is the last tomato tango. Here the diehard gardener refuses to let go of his tomato plants and their sorry-looking fruit. Sure, some of the parts look deader than Elvis, but amid the withered vines the gardener sees flashes of pink fruit and dreams of eating homegrown tomatoes at Thanksgiving dinner. Never mind that these pinkish orbs will taste like paste; they will be his issue. So on these dim November days, instead of saying goodbye to the tomato plants and pulling them from the ground, the sappy gardener lets them linger for "just a little longer." Last Sunday, after delaying the inevitable for several weeks, I finally pushed sentiment aside and pulled up my plants.
The longest-lasting autumnal dance is the leaf-raking waltz. It goes on for weeks. As I was reminded last weekend, just when you think it is over, the trees shake, and the action resumes.
When I was younger, I raked whenever the spirit moved me. Now my backyard moves are much more planned and plotted. I have become a more selective raker. I let some leaves lie. Leaves that have nestled under shrubs or around tree trunks are allowed to stay there, to protect the roots against winter damage.
When I do pick up a leaf, I have a plan for its future. It will become either mulch or compost, depending on which pile in the garden it gets tossed into. The mulch pile consists of little more than chopped-up leaves. I will tap it next spring when I put mulch around the newly planted vegetables to help them get going and to suppress weeds.
The compost pile is a bit more complicated. In addition to chopped-up leaves, it requires grass clippings and dirt and some regular stirring. But if I do keep up with all the composting tasks, the leaves will decompose into excellent soil.
Nowadays, I don't do the leaf-raking dance alone; I get some mechanical help. When our kids were younger, I could rely on them to help in my backyard task. I would put leaves in a barrel, and the kids would gleefully jump in the barrel and squash them. But once the kids got older - riding bikes, then driving cars - their leaf-squashing weekends were over.
Now, rather than relying on my flesh and blood, I rely on Black & Decker. I have an electric leaf-eater. It sucks up leaves, shreds them, then propels them into a canvas bag. I could carry the leaf-eater around the yard, vacuuming leaves. But it is too noisy. I like the quiet rhythm of raking. So last weekend, as a compromise, I raked the leaves into large piles, then let blades in the device transform the leaves into a shredded mass.
I put the mass in a plastic yard bag. Eventually, I will add more yard bags to my cache. Then I will lug them out to the garden, depositing them in the appropriate mulch or compost piles.
Soon the ground will freeze, snow will fall and I will have to retreat inside the house. But in the meantime, there will be a few more days, not many, to flirt with nature, rake leaves and enjoy the fading pleasures of the season.