There is so much to be done before the chaotic crush of Thanksgiving holiday week. Now is the perfect time to continue whipping the yard into shape so I'm not cursing myself in March. So I'm ripping up old vines and shrubs, discretely zapping certain persistent offenders, planting bulbs and digging vines and clearing and mulching and .... Yes, all of that. Haven't gotten to any reseeding or raking yet.
I had a neighbor ask around for extra materials for their composter. I offered a bag or two of our lovely willow oak leaves with some maple and holly mixed in. Funny how she has not lept at the chance. Those oak leaves make such lovely mulch... when I can get the composter open.
The leaves are coming down in earnest now, making a soft crinkly blanket covering everything. I should remember to make a big pile of them for the little girl to play in before I have to bag them up and have them hauled away. The slender willow oak leaves slide together sighingly rather than crunching like a maple or sycamore leaf. The main hazard you'd encounter might be the random holly leaf or sweet gum ball surprising you with a prickle.
I did tell my neighbor that I had too many leaves to mulch and enough to share, but maybe she suspects me of trying to pull a fast one on her. As if I'm not the one doing the work, here. No, no, really! We have too many leaves to mulch! They sit under the Japanese maples and drift over decorative rocks. They block light to what's left of my lawn, is what they do. So I will mulch and haul.
Driving down our street, I point out the changing leaf colors to the little girl. "Do you see the colors? Do you see the leaves? Red and yellow and orange and brown. 'It must be Fall.'" "Yes! I see dem!" she tells me. At home she'll shuff her feet through any drifts in her path. As she should. Is it not the province of children to revel in the senses? The leaves even smell like Fall, the slow rot and disintegration making a new layer of mulch to feed future new growth. I told my neighbor leaves are the perfect recyclable material, but I don't think she believed me.