A wealthy nuclear family lived in a large home in the fashionable and historic neighborhood of Sellwood in Portland. It was their first year in their dream house. They'd moved in during the winter so they had missed the onslaught of leaves that fell in the fall.
The woman worked in health care billing. The man worked in high tech. There was a boy, age ten, a girl, age eleven. They were spoiled brats, but not in the classic sense. They were part of the new generation of spoiled brats who didn't display traditional bratty behavior. Their quietly obnoxious behavior manifested itself in a total refusal to do anything to help around the house or yard. They had no chores, no responsibilities. They were sluggards, snot-nosed sloths. They never ventured outside or goofed around in the park or bicycled past the homeless encampment two blocks away. Indeed, the bicycles hung on the wall in the garage and hadn't been ridden in years. Did they even remember how to ride?
At one point, years ago, the parents had instructed the kids to take out the trash and dust the furniture, but they did the work poorly and then not at all, and the parents finally gave up. The kids were so indifferent to anything except their digital gadgetry that they forgot to feed their hamsters and the hamsters starved to death. The kids didn't cry.
The house sat on a double lot. There was a fancy outdoor kitchen, fire pit and home theater. In the yard grew towering maples, oaks and a cherry tree that hosted a half dozen squirrels. In the spring, a million beautiful leaves clung to the trees. In the fall, they dropped on the lawn. Boy, did they drop. The parents couldn't believe the accumulation. They wondered what to do about it.
Rake the leaves themselves? Or make the kids? Forget it. The kids had never raked leaves in their lives and the parents didn't own any rakes.
The parents called a half dozen landscape outfits. Sorry, all booked.
No one wanted to rake leaves in Portland anymore. So the leaves spread on the yard like a blanket, then a mattress. The parents watched with mild distress. The kids didn't notice a damn thing.
Thanksgiving arrived and Grandfather came to dinner. He was an interesting man, and his son was definitely not a chip off the old block. Grandfather lived in an old farmhouse on 40 acres outside of Estacada, roughly 20 miles southeast of Portland. In other words, rural Oregon.
He'd been a high school social studies teacher and football coach at the local junior high for 30 years. He wasn't all that dynamic a teacher or a successful coach, but he was a kind and decent man and he cared for his students, particularly when Estacada's timber economy bottomed out and then disappeared forever.
After retiring, he remained in the area and expected to live many more happy years with his wife. Then she came down with cancer, died quickly, and he was alone on the property.
Grandfather then had choices. Drown in grief and hit the sauce. Turn on Fox News and become deranged. Play with firearms. Or continue to engage with the world with positive movement as he had as a husband, parent, teacher, coach and citizen of Estacada. He did, after all, have a son, a daughter in-law and grandchildren, a family to live for and support in some material and emotional fashion. Thus, he chose engagement and didn't let his mind or body or property go to seed.
Now about his only child. He was a middling athlete and went on to earn a degree in computer science at Oregon State University. He landed a job in Portland writing software his father didn't really grasp, a job that did absolutely nothing to enrich the world beyond enriching corporations. He was a nice man, kind of feckless, who married a blasé woman he'd met via an algorithm. They brought the aforementioned brats into existence with about as much passion as it took to complete an online form. They bought the dream home in Sellwood and flew to corporate resorts for vacations.
The brats paid a visit to the farmhouse every now and then, but the older they got, the less they went. Grandfather had tried interesting the grand kids in work around the farmhouse, but they were utterly indifferent and fell down a lot. The son hadn't been like that growing up. He performed all manner of chores around the property, from splitting wood to mowing fields. He liked it, but surely didn't pass this trait on to his children. They'd never done a lick of manual labor in their lives.
In recent years, the holiday tradition developed that Grandfather visited the family for Thanksgiving and Christmas. He used to host the family at the farmhouse with a real tree and a turkey cooked in the oven, but the kids bitched privately to their parents that Grandfather didn't have any Wi-Fi and they didn't want to go there anymore, so now it was games on tablets around the table and a pre-cooked turkey with all the pre-cooked trimmings purchased from a swank market. Oh joy!
Another tradition had developed for the family. Grandfather used to pick out thoughtful gifts for the grand kids, like tool boxes, rain jackets and bicycles, but they were all a bust and the parents suggested Grandfather nix the presents and dispense cold hard cash in a nice card. He agreed and the amount gradually rose over the years until this Christmas it stood at $300 a brat.
Thanksgiving. Grandfather showed up early as he always did and drank a dark beer while watching some NFL team trounce the Lions on television. The grand kids came down to greet him when he showed up, but then quickly raced back up to their rooms to separately watch movies.
The parents toiled in the kitchen. Grandfather stood up from the couch and walked over to the big window that overlooked the yard. He couldn't believe how high the leaves had piled up. They were practically shin high! It was a lazy homeowner's disgrace! The grass was going to die!
Grandfather strolled into the kitchen and casually mentioned how good everything looked outside. The son said he needed to get the leaves hauled away but he couldn't find a service. Grandfather almost suggested the kids rake the leaves, but he held his tongue.
He excused himself and said he was going to take a walk before the feast. He donned his coat, opened the door, and started walking down the sidewalk. He passed the garage and stopped. He turned around, moved forward, opened a gate, walked into the yard, and onto layer cake of leaves. He found a door to the garage and entered. Automatic lights popped on overhead. He surveyed the interior of the garage and could not believe his eyes—not a single yard tool. Not even a broom!
A quiet fury, then disillusion, crept into Grandfather. He left the garage and began pacing the sidewalk. He needed to clear his head and think. There was no way he was giving those brats more cash for Christmas! You had to be a good boy or girl for Santa to deliver the bounty. That was the rule.
Your gentle cynicism is good and also reassuring because there will be a positive message in the follow-up installment. It reminds me of the stories in "Oregon Coast Christmas Tales." I just came across in our move this week.
While my library has shrunk in the new house and I have to donate some, this good work, "The Old Crow Book Club" and "Choice Cuts of Oregon Fiction made the cut along with "Moby Dick", "Anna Karenina" and four of my favorite Brian Doyle novels..... You're in good company, Mr Love!