On my way home, I drove past an eighty year old woman whose house is at the bottom of our hill. She was raking up leaves in her yard, bending over and putting them into large brown paper bags. Next, a few houses past hers and a little farther up the hill, I passed a young man. He was working in his yard, too, blowing the leaves out into the street with a power blower. When I finally pulled into my driveway at the top of the mountain, I turned off the engine and sat there for a minute. Something, no, several things about the whole scene just seemed wrong.


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