Today my front yard looks like an autumn landscape …. not on a postcard but on a sale paper for leaf blowers and rakes. I prefer to think of it as an advertisement for autumn, my favorite season. Yellow leaves still cling to the silver maple, but the red maple’s leaves are mostly on the ground. The already brown dogwood leaves are strewn about the yard. The ornamental pears are about half red and half green at this point, but I parked under one of them yesterday and returned this morning to find my car covered with bright leaves. Mostly though, big sycamore leaves coat the yard. Almost every brown leaf is bigger than my hand, and the wind has worked diligently to spread them all over the whole place.
All over town I’ve seen people raking their leaves, but you won’t see me with a rake in my hand. I like those leaves. I like the way they look, and they also provide a blanket for some of my more delicate plants. Besides, when Jack Frost brings the winter winds to push Fall out of his way, those winds will carry away most of the leaves. The ones that remain to rot will enrich the soil for next year’s gardens. If by some rare chance the leaves are still here in the spring, then I’ll get them with the lawn mower. You can bet I’ll not be raking them.
The seasons have finally changed, for which I am truly grateful. But the rain situation was still dire until Hurricane Nicole came strutting up through Georgia this week. As I sat at the computer looking out the window at the sprinkler, I whispered words of thanksgiving for fat rain drops on my window instead of a few drops of sprinkler water. I needed about a week or two of rain, steady, soaking water to refresh the earth and me. How I’d enjoy the soothing spattering of raindrops against the roof and my bedroom window as I sprawled on the bed with some book. The rain would sing me to sleep long before I finished my book, but I’d gladly wake to it after my nap.
Every day I prayed for rain. When I turned on the Weather Channel, I sat and gazed at the brown colors of a drought-stricken Georgia. My sister told me that she read somewhere that this area will be a desert in the next century. I scoffed, of course, but I was wondering as we continued to move from one dry day to the next.
Yet even as I longed for rain, I was and am thankful for so much. As Thanksgiving approaches, I anticipate the laughter of raucous boys in the house again. I love having the whole family in the house again at the same time.
Legos and crayons no longer cover the table; now board games and playing cards do. This year for the first time since I took over the role of chief cook for Thanksgiving, I’ll not be cooking the meal. I chose instead to have my right knee replaced. The pain made me do it. My boys are planning the meal. Their wives will help, I’m sure. They tell me it’s all under control, and I believe it. Some new dishes and some traditional ones will make up the dinner. I’m certain the usual macaroni and cheese will be there along with pumpkin pies. My family disapproves if I tamper with the menu, but it’s fine if they do. I don’t mind at all. I am truly thankful for my family and look forward to having them all home for a few days as we pause in the usual race that is life. On Friday everyone will dash back to his activities, but until then, Larry and I will relish having every single one of themhome again. What a blessing.
In the meantime, I’ll nurse my knee and do therapy exactly as they say to. And by Christmas time, I should be close to normal, whatever that is. I hope for brand-new, not what has been my normal limp for too long. My boys and their spouses have wonderful culinary skills, but I’m just not sure they’re ready to prepare the Christmas feast yet. The grandsons certainly don’t think so.
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