On this gray windy Fall day by Lake Huron any remnants of desire for home ownership have been blown away. Mature trees that block the street lights in Summer turn the colors I dreamed of seeing. The South Texas climate dictate what grows. The leaves don’t fall. Brown. Not a glorious palate of red, yellows and gold. Riding through a tunnel of them is magical. They tumble through the air on the unseen whim of the cool air. Forget the science of how and why. The adult gives way to a child like wonder of the season. A youthful period of endless possible futures.

Then they met the hard surface of the street. A reality meant for the adult self. Raking. Bagging. Work after getting off work. Unless you have kids. Then it work of a different sort to make sure it’s done. Not done right. Just done. Home ownership is a lifestyle choice. One which I’ve opted out of. Apartment dweller for 10 years.

At first the desire was still strong. Get my life back together. Look to get a small house in a older neighborhood. Problem being having done that early in my marriage. The neighborhood changed around us. One house at a time. Deep community roots replaced by very shallow transitory ones. Big single family homes of the past were made into apartments by absent landlords. We started the journey a couple. Continued it a family. And yes, did the White Flight route. Build a house in the country.

The land had been found 3 years before. Got a shell of a modular ranch style house. One which I would finish off after work. Every night and weekends.  Antique reclaimed pine floors. Done in a picture frame pattern to separate the Dining/Living room area. Ceiling fans. Tile work. Kitchen. 1 am was when I wondered if it was something we could afford? Was it something I wanted? There had always been a building tension inside about how this desire matched the reality I was evolving in. The process of vision to physical completion is still one of my greatest pleasures. Building is an addictive tactile experience. To much of our modern existence has no ending. It’s all continuum.

Mowing was and is a hated chore. Growing up maintaining a smallish slice of green to match everyone else’s shade of green was a duty my father entrusted me to. No leaves. No mature trees. First house? Yes. Been there, done that. My time is better spent. On anything else. How about meadow grass or a vegetable garden. No mowing or food. Something useful for the time spent after work. Leaves are the one equalizer in my city. Lumber Baron mansions. Larger upscale homes behind. Working class houses marching down the street with the sameness of having been built wholesale. Gray weathered concrete repaired with black asphalt is a carpet of gold. Beauty in decay.

The Seasons rule our lives. Even those climes that have subtle changes. Festivals mark the time we humans have proscribed over centuries. Markers we carry with us where ever we chose to live. All, except in densely packed urban areas, centered around a separate structure. A house. In a grouping of such structures. Neighborhoods. All bound to together by peer pressure to rake the fallen leaves.

Leaves I ride through with child like joy. On a bicycle.  That magical invention that give me that first taste of freedom. A milestone in a child’s life. The dominate figures in your young life trust you enough to let you out of their sight. Nose in the wind. Going fast. Or slow. My choice. I will gladly ride through all those adults raking and bagging in the growing darkness.