The great leaf conspiracy at our house

Thoughts while running…

It turns out that saving the planet comes with consequences.

Thirty-one years ago, when we bought our house, there was just one lonely plum tree in the entire yard. It had been planted sometime in the 1940s, leaned a little and looked like it had seen some hard years. But it had personality. In the heat of July, it was the only spot with enough shade for the kids to play, and I remember thinking, “You know, we should plant a few more trees. Shade would be nice.”

But trees are expensive, and we were broke. So we bought one little quaking aspen, a stick with roots and about twenty leaves, and proudly declared that now we had two trees.

About then, I read somewhere that for every four mature trees you have, you offset all the carbon dioxide you breathe out. Five if you have a personal jet or drive any car built before 1978. So, being the responsible citizen I am, I did the math for our family of six and kept planting.

Somehow, without ever riding in a DeLorean, I woke up in 2025. Saturday afternoon, with a rake in hand and my back aching, I finally counted all the trees in the yard. Forty-four! Perfect. I’m single-handedly saving the planet and simultaneously destroying my back. 

Forty-four magnificent, oxygen-producing, shade-giving giants. Add in about ten more belonging to my neighbors Randy and Jack that hang farther over my yard than theirs, and I’m now the proud owner of what can only be described as a suburban forest preserve.

In June, it’s breathtaking. The sunlight filters through like a Van Gogh painting. (He’s the one who cut off his ear to impress a girl). The birds sing. The air is cool. My wife and I sit on the deck and say things like, “This is paradise. When are the grandkids coming to visit?” And as summer moves into autumn, our backyard becomes a rainbow of fall colors so vivid the entire state of Vermont would be jealous.

But then November shows up, and paradise packs up and leaves. Literally.

You see, we also have a fenced yard. That means the leaves can come in, but they can’t get out. My backyard has become a natural leaf collection system, efficient, airtight and absolutely relentless. Forty-four trees times thousands of leaves each adds up to about eight or ten inches everywhere. When the wind swirls, it’s a whirlwind of autumn colors. In the corners, the piles reach three feet deep. If a small child wandered in, I might not find them again until spring thaw.

But here’s the problem. Kids grow up. Mine moved out. They’re off somewhere producing their own carbon dioxide, and I’m the one left behind with forty-four trees and all the leaves. Apparently, when your children move away, they leave, but their leaves do not, and they don’t come back to help rake.

My wife thinks we should bag them up and haul them away. I did some quick math. That’s roughly 500 garbage bags. I’d need to rent a semi-truck and maybe hire the entire Grizz seventh grade to help rake.

Here’s my big plan: Close the curtains to the backyard, turn on a football game, ignore the growing mountain of color blowing up against the fence and hope for an early, very deep snow. “Leaves? What leaves, dear? We’ve always had a ski slope back there.”

Next spring, I’ll ignore the layers of soggy, half-rotted leaf mush and tell myself it’s natural compost, then pray that the bit of jungle in the northwest corner doesn’t bring in wild animals.

So here I am, the proud owner of a carbon-neutral yard, standing ankle-deep in proof that being an environmental superhero can have messy consequences.