Columns

We always say we like the winter because it makes us so appreciative of the other seasons, but I'm not sure anyone believes us

There are always leaves. I have no idea how this happens. I'm not the arborist I'd like to be,
but I'm fairly sure that there are no deciduous trees from which leaves fall more than once a year. And yet there they always are. Their constant presence in my garden is just one of those things that makes the physical world so fascinating.

It's very bright outside in April. That's because of the twenty-three degree tilt of the earth during its elliptical orbit around the sun. And because I lost my sunglasses in the garden last September.

It's also bright outside because there are no leaves on the trees. They're all on the ground. On
top of my sunglasses.

I can guess what you're thinking. You're probably pulling a stem of grass from between your teeth, looking thoughtfully at the sky, and you're thinking that had I raked last autumn I wouldn't have to rake now. But that's what I find so very interesting.

Because I did rake last autumn. And last summer. And last spring. I never do anything in the
garden but rake.

The basswood is not a tidy tree. Like most denizens of the urban forest, it has leaves. Which are bad enough. But it also has brown pods that fall - torrentially, I think, would be the word -- just when I've carried the last bag of maple keys to the curb. The pods are disguised to look like dead leaves. So they blend right in.

When it comes to the preservation of species I take a backseat to no man. I probably have as
many illegitimate children as the next fellow. After all: don't forget there was a time when the sky was black with passenger pigeons. Same with the buffalo. Even blacker. There's no such thing as too many ejaculations.

But really, don't you think the maple family is a little excessive? Wouldn't five or ten thousand keys per tree be enough? Why does every maple tree feel individually responsible for replacing the entire boreal forest?

As I understand it, the boreal forest is what would be here if the city wasn't. Not that the trees have actually signed the surrender. It's possible that I just didn't see any leaves when I was out in the yard with a rake last autumn because they were hidden under all the maple keys. Or perhaps it was merely the failing light that was the problem.

It can get pretty dark at this latitude once the weather turns. Around here, we usually say goodbye to the sun about the time we put away our white dinner jackets. Apparently, this is the price we pay to live in a country with health care. We always say we like the winter because it makes us so appreciative of the other seasons, but I'm not sure anyone believes us. All the same, it's a happy day when, seven or eight months after we start shoveling, the blizzards clear and we can see our hands in front of our faces once again.

Of course, by then I've pretty much given up. By then I haven't been out of my pajamas for weeks.

But luckily for us, the garden has not given up. The garden has not been mooning about in its bathrobe watching daytime television, eating tinned beans, and micro-waving coffee. I often get the impression that the garden has been busy as can be -- growing piles of wet, dead leaves. And here's what happens when winter finally ends.

On a bright morning when I carry my recycling to the curb, I am still in my bathrobe. I am pale and unshaven. I am the cause of some concern for my neighbours, I know. The Drambuie and the Kaluha were gifts.

I admit that the trip to the curb remains a bit of a blur. And I admit, it isn't until I'm on my way back that I notice. It's remarkable how resilient consciousness can be. The clouds part, somehow. On my return journey to the house, I take things in.

I notice that the sky is blue - the eggshell blue of spring. Here and there are warm patches of
misted sunlight. I can smell the grass and the moist earth. The sidewalks are still wet with last night's rain. The red-winged blackbirds are calling. The earth has journeyed around the sun once more. It must be time to rake the leaves.