If you’re tired of raking leaves, raise your hand.

I’m sorry. If you’ve been raking leaves you probably can’t raise your hand because of sore arms and shoulders and an aching back.
If you haven’t raked them up by now, you’re out of luck because by the time the five o’clock whistle blows and you get caught up in rush hour traffic, you’ll finally arrive home in the dark as we soon “fall back” one hour, leaving you no time to accomplish that joyous autumnal chore of raking leaves. You’re then forced to spend most of your weekends raking and piling and bagging and carrying your leaves off instead of pursuing other more enticing activities such as playing a few rounds of golf, getting in a little fishing or cleaning out your freezer.

Isn’t it strange how activists spend all their time trying to save trees while the rest of us curse their existence?

During those unpredictable thunderstorms and the occasional hurricane that brings with it those fun high gusting winds, we find ourselves huddled in the safety of our basements crossing our fingers and hoping that the surrounding monster oaks and maples don’t come down on our houses and turn them into split levels.

During the recent harsh winters with record snowfalls and destructive ice, we are forced to lay in our beds and listen to limbs snap, crackle, and pop, hoping one of the many branches don’t puncture the house and create a skylight without the assistance of a Class A contractor.

During a short period of time in early spring, we enjoy the budding of trees which creates a mist of red across the wooded hills of the Blue Ridge. We look on with amazement as birds become nature’s architects and construct nests in nooks high above the ground. But it’s not too long before the spell is broken and we are once again cursing the tree tops under which we can no longer park our cars and trucks without being bombed from above by our vile feathered friends.

For another short while in mid-October we observe the changing leaves marking the end of one season and the beginning of another. From far and near our highways and byways are overflowing with frantic fanatics flocking to view the brilliant, ever-changing foliage of our hardwood forests. And then as these hardwoods stand naked with their bare limbs outstretched and their fall fashions six inches deep at their bases, we curse them again, knowing the task of raking will soon begin.

Why do we have to rake leaves at all? Why can’t we just leave the leaves on the ground where they fall?

I’ll tell you why. Some big shot suburbanite many years ago decided that a lawn was more attractive if all the leaves were gathered up and discarded. This big shot had some sort of influence on the public—probably a politician or a columnist in a local paper. The fad caught on, and now the rest of us have fallen victim to having to rake our lawns clean of all leaves.

This guy was probably the same idiot who decided neckties are more formal than flannel shirts and a washed car is more aesthetically pleasing than one covered with dusty road residue. Because we are a nation of followers, today we are forced to rake up all our leaves on Saturday mornings and then show up at weddings on Saturday afternoon in clean cars and neckties.

Let’s admit it. We seem to make trouble for ourselves. If we move into an older house surrounded by stately oaks or maples, we have to rake leaves because the historical society prohibits cutting any of them down due to their historical value as can be seen by the bronze plaque attached to the base of each 150 year old tree that reads: “Robert E. Lee’s dog was here in 1863, 64, and twice in 65.”
On the other hand, if we build a new house in an open meadow, the first thing we do is strategically plant a dozen maple trees on the property, meticulously fertilizing and watering them so they can grow to healthy proportions which we will later curse because we have to spend all our free weekends in October and November raking up leaves from a yard that used to be an open meadow. Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it.

Yes, we’re certainly gluttons for punishment. I say to heck with that guy who started the fad that takes away all our evenings and weekends. Just because he felt a well-groomed yard should be a standard by which we all must live doesn’t mean the rest of us have to follow in his footprints—of course one can’t find his footprints since they were neatly wiped off on the “Welcome” mat after he had finished raking the yard.

Throw down your rakes, America. Relieve yourself of those sore arms and aching backs.  Let the chips and the leaves fall where they may. Let’s rake up this stupid fad; pile it, bag it, and put in out with the rest of the trash.

There’ll be no more raking for this guy. I don’t have time for such a petty chore as raking up leaves. I’ve got better things to do. I’ve got to wash my car and pick out a tie. I have a wedding this weekend.