The tree depicted here is not one of the offenders. It is the Chinese dogwood, and this specimen has grown into a show-piece of our front yard. It has a beautiful background, as Andy has brought the lawn back from an embarrassing and barren stretch of pine-tree-riddled dust, transforming it to a richly-verdant carpet of fluffy grass. Onto that soft bed falls the leaves of the dogwood, and whatever strawberry-like fruit (in appearance only) remains from the birds and the chipmunks.
But this post is not about the beautiful dogwood parade before you. This is a lament for the oaks, who have held onto their leaves until now, when it’s too cold for Andy to properly dispose of them. They will have to wait, which is not the end of the world – it simply means more raking in the spring to keep the lawn looking healthy.
Come February, I will be dreaming of the ability and weather conditions to rake, so I’m not entirely upset about the notion of doing it. In fact, a memory that also looks ahead is my favorite kind of memory to make.
As for the oaks, they remain sight unseen in these parts. It’s enough to know that they’re there – high in the sky, beyond our roof, beyond the top of this dogwood, beyond the years it took to build the neighborhood. That magnificence deserves respect, and their stubbornness is to be admired.