When the fog settled on the city, it felt like December, even though temperatures remained well above freezing.
In the garden, the red and yellow leaves felt like they belonged to some other month; not exactly November, but definitely not December, either.
On Saturday morning, I went outside and discovered a pride of wild gray panthers — displaced from their Florida habitat — roaming through the rocks and trees, searching for prey.
A fourth cat appeared and, after assessing the situation, started issuing commands. “Someone had better pick up these leaves asap.”
Some people were not interested in following orders, however. “Did you know that Clio comes from the Ancient Greek for ‘counter cat’?”
Somewhere in the distance you could hear the sound of shaking treats, which prompted Elektra to relinquish her command. “Later, dudes.”
Clio heard the shaking treats but remained transfixed by the statue. “What should I do?” asked Clio. “Follow the shaking treats,” answered the statue. “Obv.”
Left to myself, I decided to remove the stump of an old beech tree that had died a few years ago. To get it out required a saw, a shovel, some big clippers, and a lot of patience.
One of our surviving maples turned orange in appreciation for the extra space in the ground, which was like getting a second bedroom in a New York City apartment.
I went to the front yard, where I decided to pursue my dreams of a career picking up leaves. Recently, I was reading a blog post by someone complaining about being “on tour” for however many months following the publication of a mildly acclaimed novel. “I love my job,” s/he said, “but oMG u guYz I was s0oo0 L0nelY on the road :(” Reading this use of ‘my job,’ I had to roll my eyes, knowing that if I were given the opportunity to pursue my dream job — picking up leaves — I would never want to sound so arrogant given the millions of others who are toiling away in soulless, cubicled careers with no chance of ever becoming a professional leaf picker-upper. I wanted to say to this person: what you do is not “a job” even if it is in the most technical sense of the getting-paid-to-do-something. There is work and there is work. It was possible that I was being irrational.
I picked up leaves and mulched with a vengeance, first in the front yard…
…and then in the back. (Where absolute perfection, as in all great arts, is not possible.)
There will always be more leaves that need to be picked up, such as these resting in a watery grave on top of the fountain.
But on the whole, I felt like I had accomplished something that — despite the subjective nature of this fine art — could be considered by most to be “good” or “beautiful.” I had picked up so many leaves! It was not (yet) my “job,” but I felt like it could be, if I worked hard enough.
As a reward, I was offered a glimpse of a last chrysanthemum, whose petals dropped and scattered where the leaves had once blown.
