I believe I can officially say that autumn is my least favorite time of year in this part of the world. Yes, I love the brisk temperatures and the glorious colors. But oh my God, The Leaves.

I don’t know why The Leaves are so abundant here. There are trees in Canada, after all. But perhaps given the climate, the trees seem denser, more packed with leaves than any trees I am familiar with. And so when The Leaves come down, it is almost suffocating. I have a 400-year-old sycamore in my backyard. I have a big huge maple in the front. They are MASSIVE. And when they drop their leaves, we are talking what seem like millions and millions of leaves.

The Leaves haunt my dreams. They fall down the chimney. They end up everywhere in the house. If it rains, they form a thick mat several inches thick that is almost impossible to rake. I am constantly sweeping and raking and sweeping and raking. I saw a snake slither out of The Leaves the other day. I have seen dead rodents in them. I dream I am drowning in the The Leaves. I dream they are alive. I am not a nightmare person, but The Leaves freak me the fuck out.

I am also tense about The Leaves and The Trimbles. Fucking Vern Trimble is out in his yard several times a day, raking them. He is an enemy of The Leaves, and I feel his judgment when I am only out, say, several times a week. He plucks stray leaves off his car constantly, and he’s parked under an oak. He is always, always on top of The Leaves. The Leaves are apparently his life for two months every autumn.

But I could no longer keep up with The Leaves, so I phoned a lawn and garden place to come blow them and then dump them on the side of the road, where the county is scheduled to come get them this week. And as I type this, right now, the Trimbles are out there tsking and clucking and whispering to themselves on their front porch as two guys go at my leaves with leaf-blowers. I already saw Vern approach one of the lawn guys, and speak briefly. This happened shortly after Vern brushed about a dozen leaves off his car — leaves that apparently were blown there by the garden guys.

This infuriates me. Fuck off, Trimbles. I have a life, and I prefer not to spend six hours a day raking fucking leaves. Yes, I hired a Hispanic lawn service company to come help me out. I know you don’t like brown people, especially not brown people with loud machines, but I don’t like The Leaves, so piss right off.