It’s snowing, a harsh wind is blowing and the sun has yet to come up, but I’m taking a pleasant stroll down Aspen Alley. I don’t even have a jacket on, and am tempted to go barefoot.
That’s because “Aspen Alley” is the name I’ve just given to the track from my side door, up the steps and through the house.
Raking up leaves is good exercise, but then what? If I don’t rake them up, most will have crumbled away by spring anyway.
I went on a planting binge when I moved to my home a couple of decades ago. The yard had been virtually devoid of anything but useless lawn, but is now home to a host of rescued deciduous trees and shrubs.
The aspen was my first rescue. I was driving along a rural road and saw a bulldozer approaching a small, isolated aspen. I jumped out of the truck with a hollered “Wait a minute!” grabbed a shovel. (Do you remember when we all carried the traditional “Axe, Bucket, Shovel,” when we were