17 October 2015 nonfiction, "Leaves" 3 drafts

Draft 1: 

When I was nine years old, my grandfather offered me five dollars to help him rake the leaves off of his lawn. It was an easy enough job, and I was an obvious enough target: old enough to hold a rake.

I got myself into the mindset that this five dollars would be what I would use to buy Christmas presents that year. Having readily understood the expectation for me to buy them, and yet still limited by my own flaw of spending all money I came into contact with, this five dollars felt like a gift. It was November, and we had already discussed picking out the Christmas tree.

I don’t remember a lot about raking the leaves that day, only that it was not too cold to be outside and that my grandfather commented when we were finished that the neighbors had yet to address all the leaves on their lawn. My grandmother came out at one point and raked a bit with us, then returned to the house to prepare lemonade for when we were finished.

I only realized recently how superfluous a task it is to rake leaves off of one’s lawn. It’s an activity based entirely in aesthetic, and the leaves fall down every minute of autumn anyway—it’s a task one can never fully catch up to, to attempt to rake all the leaves off the grass.

The other day I saw a leaf spiral down off a tree and land squarely in a pile of leaves that grew by the minute. It wasn’t supernatural, but I was reminded of my grandfather. Reminded of that day, and the black plastic bags of leaves, and the clean paneling of my grandparents’ house, and the satisfying and yet trying realization that I was doing physical labor in exchange for money. I couldn’t wait to be done raking, and yet when I remember actually doing it, I feel only nostalgic. I feel the security of purchasing Christmas gifts for my family, remember the disdain with which I regarded the leaf-covered lawn of the neighbor’s house, taste the sweet lemonade that was refreshing on a cold autumn day.

My own yard is covered with leaves in the fall, but I’ve never questioned it. It’s not a task that crosses my mind; not something I picture myself doing if I ever eventually have a yard that I don’t share with my mom.

I really prefer a yard that acknowledges the seasons. One that allows itself to be covered, in leaves, blossoms, or snow. But when I see the yard of my grandparents’ house, I can only think to rake it. It only makes sense to be outside before Christmas, trying against all odds to keep it green until the very last minute.

Draft 2: 

When I was nine years old, my grandfather offered me five dollars to help him rake the leaves off of his lawn. It was an easy enough job, and I was an obvious enough target: old enough to hold a rake.

I got myself into the mindset that this five dollars would be what I would use to buy Christmas presents that year. Having readily understood the expectation for me to buy them, and yet still limited by my own flaw of spending all money I came into contact with, this five dollars felt like a gift. It was November, and we had already discussed picking out the Christmas tree.

I don’t remember a lot about raking the leaves that day, only that it was not too cold to be outside and that my grandfather commented when we were finished that the neighbors had yet to address all the leaves on their lawn. My grandmother came out at one point and raked a bit with us, then returned to the house to prepare lemonade for when we were finished.

I only realized recently how superfluous a task it is to rake leaves off of one’s lawn. It’s an activity based entirely in aesthetic, and the leaves fall down every minute of autumn anyway—it’s a task one can never fully catch up to, to attempt to rake all the leaves off the grass.

The other day I saw a leaf spiral down off a tree and land squarely in a pile of leaves that grew by the minute. It wasn’t supernatural, but I was reminded of my grandfather. Reminded of that day, and the black plastic bags of leaves, and the clean paneling of my grandparents’ house, and the satisfying and yet trying realization that I was doing physical labor in exchange for money. I couldn’t wait to be done raking, and yet when I remember actually doing it, I feel only nostalgic. I feel the security of purchasing Christmas gifts for my family, remember the disdain with which I regarded the leaf-covered lawn of the neighbor’s house, taste the sweet lemonade that was refreshing on a cold autumn day.

My own yard is covered with leaves in the fall, but I’ve never questioned it. It’s not a task that crosses my mind; not something I picture myself doing if I ever eventually have a yard that I don’t share with my mom.

I really prefer a yard that acknowledges the seasons. One that allows itself to be covered, in leaves, blossoms, or snow. But when I see the yard of my grandparents’ house, I can only think to rake it. It only makes sense to be outside before Christmas, trying against all odds to keep it green until the very last minute.

Draft 3: 

When I was nine years old, my grandfather offered me five dollars to help him rake leaves. It was an easy enough job, and I figured could use the five dollars to buy Christmas presents that year.

It was not too cold to be outside that day. We raked in silence, stopping only when my grandfather commented that the neighbors had yet to address all the leaves on their lawn. My grandmother eventually came out and raked with us.

I specifically remember the start and finish of the task being on the side of the garage. We stacked full plastic bags against the plastic paneling, and it was on this side that the three of us all raked together. I sang Christmas songs in my head. My grandfather’s rake moved the fastest.

As we shifted through the quarter acre or so of the backyard, I found myself pushed to the edge of the fence, up against the woodpile. It was the part of the day that made me feel the most useful, but I was angered by how long it took, how insignificant I felt about succumbing to the seasons.

I only realized recently how futile a task it is to rake leaves off of one’s lawn. The leaves fall down every minute of autumn anyway—it’s a task one can never fully catch up to.  

The other day I saw a leaf spiral down off a tree and land squarely in a pile of leaves, and I was reminded of my grandfather. Reminded of that day, and the black plastic bags, and the clean plastic paneling of my grandparents’ garage.

I really prefer a yard that acknowledges the seasons. One that allows itself to be covered. But when I see the yard of my grandparents’ house, I can only think to rake it. It only makes sense to be outside before Christmas, trying against all odds to keep things green until the very last minute.