There is an amazing sound as a rake scratches the back of Mother Earth. I guess my father, and other fathers of the neighbourhood, possessed expert awareness of the sounds of the seasons. They raked, shovelled, scraped, sawed.

 

Lately I am keenly observant of how many yard tasks seem to require an engine, requiring all modes of onomatopoeic sound effects, for example, rbbll rbble splutt sputt grtzzle grtzzle. Natural and built elements of a twenty-first century yard seem to require more muscle power than possessed by fathers of the mid-twentieth century of the post-WWII era. I marvel that they administrated their square footage and metreage or yardage without simply skipping town at mere sight of a bud, snowflake or leaf.

These were men of courageous bravery and raw strength. However, did they manage ― especially in times of pre-Medicare universal health care in Canada? What risk takers! Despite the times, they were Super Heroes.

 

Garden? Spade and rake. Lawn? Push mower, scythe and rake, with broom to sweep grass off the sidewalk. Hose a sidewalk? Seldom, water was precious. Wait for the rain. Leaves? Rake. Snow? Shovel. Potatoe? Hoe. The men of the neighbourhood lived with the seasons, with us children along as help and distraction. Aerobic workouts and expense of gym passes, equipment and outfits? No. Yard work suited all. For these men, hitting the club meant a step into the yard. [1]

I think on this because today I studied a neighbour spult-spult-spluttering with a motor thingey slung over shoulder like travel luggage. From an intermediate distance, this person looked like someone auditioning for a walk-on part in remake of the movie Dune. I observed the set-up with critical vexatiousness about the decline of the entire human species. I do not mean to overstate; however, given the size of the area of front sidewalk, there were a meta-billion non-motorized options. I am not derisive of an individual but include an entire nation of leaf-challenged persons who resort to motorized warfare on items that are going to compost if they were given a chance to live out there natural born days as leafs and/or leaves [Er, I think one of these is the Brit spelling. Just teasing.]

For me, it is the huger question of how this need for motors (gasoline, electric) emerged. How is it that a generation of fathers somehow controlled the unruly environment with raw courage and gloved hands? What did fathers of my childhood  discern? If there was too much yard work to be done, then everyone just birthed children: a bigger yard implied more children. Families were on the large side in the mid-twentieth century. Anyhoo...

 

I reimagine our neighbourhood on weekend mornings. There would probably have been a lot of riotous if not lawless chortling if anyone had decided to address the issue of errant leafs with a motorized, engine-driven, leaf-blower device mechanism. The item looks near to ridiculous strapped upon a person’s back. How did we survive in our neighbourhood with leafs blowing like circling vampires waiting to alight for All Hallows Eve? How did anyone manage any enjoyment at Halloween with leafs just gathering in gangs at the bases of trees and in anarchistic heaps along street gutters? Given today’s standards, our area probably qualified for disaster relief funding. I am utterly amazed the area was not photographed for National Geographic and used as exemplar of an underprivileged zone of people-who-use-rakes.

I hear and read about environmental strategies at the micro-level, harkening recall of air drying laundry, push mowing the lawn and hand sweeping a sidewalk buried under leaves. A paradigm shift towards eco-friendly is lauded as de rigueur. This was life in the 1950-60s. Sixty years later even a car must be power-washed with a super-duper hose nozzle as a yard hose is, apparently, inadequate.

This is not throwaway critique of neighbourhood then and now. Tasks performed fifty and sixty years ago are still requirement, unless one possesses one of those modern rock and/or gravel front yards, which looks like a dried river bed.

 

These are rituals of seasons. What is more difficult (for me) to comprehend is the shifting slide into more resource intensive ways of doing the chores of the seasons. When I really think of those weekend mornings there was a waking and moving meditation of human energy as snow shovels scraped or push mowers bladed. There was the whispering whirr of summer sprinklers, a jazz composition of bodies in motion, with children all in bouncing syncopation. There was the music of rakes disrupted with shouts and squeals of children.

 

These chores are still done but it seems that the meditation of muscles now drowns in the moans of machines, which would bludgeon even the meditative competencies of Alfred J. Prufrock, Dali Lama or Saint Teresa D’Avila. [2]

Dads. There they are, freeze-framed in serene walking/moving meditations. I am sure fathers suffered as adults the boredom, the frustrations, the irritations of yard work yet communal energy of the neighbourhood role-modelled the interplay of men, children and seasons: sans machines. ‘scusa must finish bagging fugitive leaves I saved from leaf blower frenzy. I'm thinking I'll move some of the leftover turkey around in the basement freezer to make room for these bags of colourful foliage. Then, should boredom seize this winter (A big IF) I can probably find a craft hobby which requires a handy supply of frozen deciduous foliage.

 

The rains of YVR pound the pavement tonight. At least the seasons are not yet motorized.

© Sharilyn Calliou. 15 October 2009. All rights reserved.

From Blue Dog Studio

Graphic from Microsoft Clipart Downloads

Endnotes

[1] These were gendered times, pre-gender consciousness although moms did help us as required. There was more understanding of teamwork.

[2] A wave to Saint Teresa D’Avila. It is her Feast Day. She acquired rare status as female as designated Doctor of the Church, in Roman Catholic traditions.

TTFN