Fall: A Love Story

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It’s that time again, people. You know what I’m talking about. Somewhere there is a pumpkin latte brewing; shoe leather is being brushed and polished; and an argyle sweater is being resurrected from its storage box. That’s right: it’s fall, baby! And though I do love the marvelous array of color that fall brings, and my breath, in clouds, floating off on the crisp breeze, nothing says fall to me like the prolonged drone of a leaf blower.

Ah! What bliss! Who doesn’t love rising to the morning song of a leaf blower outside their window? Better yet if there are several. A chorus.

Because, screw rakes. Why waste an afternoon expending precious energy, getting moderate exercise, when you can stand in one place, maybe swaying  from side to side a little, serenading your entire neighborhood? And bonus: you get to use gasoline. Or diesel, depending on your model.

It’s time we recognized leaf blower operators as the real heroes of fall. Such defiance. “Suck it, wind!” They cry. “If you destroy our carefully crafted leaf piles we shall only return stronger to build them again. And again. And again. And again. And . . . .”

So here’s to you, leaf-blowers! You are as American as apple pie, the whirling inactivity of Congress, and the driving engine of consumerism. Drone on, leaf blowers, drown out our thoughts and blow us away like chaff.

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