January Chore

where I can look at them often enough to make sure that I remember what God doesn't want me to forget. Return to Gregory Bald, June 1994 This time there is no indecision about where to pitch the tent. The only marker I need is right in front of me—a dead but still erect oak tree, split from top to bottom from a bolt of lightning four years earlier. It has been raining all day and everything is drenched. The azaleas are at their peak, but because of the perpetual rain and wind, impossible to capture on film. This missed photo opportunity is only a minor set-back; after all I didn't return just to shoot a few rolls of Fujichrome. I came to relive the experience, to freshen my memories and to recharge my batteries for whatever lies ahead. The sun is setting and the rain is beginning to pound the tent with relentless force, so I think I'll climb into my tattered tent, slip into my neatly patched sleeping bag, light a candle and finish reading II Corinthians. January Chore I get the steel-tined rake, in numbing cold, out from the garage, being of a mind to sweep up the decayed October mold of dead leaves scattered by the gypsy wind. I scrape the rake along the ground and heap brown leaves into a neat stack of my own. The pile looks like a bear in winter sleep, a huddled mass beneath the tree alone. Chore done, I pause, admire my tidy hill, as winds arrive and softly start to take each raked-up piece and lift and scatter till my lawn again becomes a leafy lake. And thus does heartless Nature disregard my plea for law and order in my yard. —Paula Wells 29 ...