Today I raked the front lawn. Earlier in the week a friend had noticed another area I had raked and with a bitter voice said she would never live in a house where she had to rake. We compared awful memories of weekends in our childhoods when we were forced, under extreme duress, to rake acres of lawn with our siblings in our respective suburban yards. No thanks, no pay, and no breaks to play.
Why am I still raking? To begin with it reminds me of my decision not to make my children my servants. In addition, I find raking somewhat like sweeping a floor at the end of a busy day, or brushing the hair of a child before sleeping, or scratching the back of a worn-out friend.
For the first few hours raking seems futile in a yard in the Adirondacks surrounded by maples. But I am conditioned to a do at least a little raking in the fall. I am not fully ready for the winter without a little raking. The grass looks more relaxed somehow and I feel a little more of the summer life that is not entirely withdrawn. I find treasures of orange fungus and odd seed heads.
Today while the raking was underway I diverged, now free to rake at my own pace as my own boss. I trimmed the tickseed and placed an armful of the purple-brown, fern-like stems into the wheelbarrow, no less a bouquet than the lush green with bright yellow flowers that I cut in summer.