French Street could easily be called Short Street. There are only five houses on each side of it.
Our friend Dr John lives at the top of the street, which slopes gently downward to Scottie’s house at the bottom of the street. John has huge trees in his yard and every year when the leaves fall they immediately blow down to the bottom of the hill and gather in Scottie’s yard. Huge, heaping piles of leaves.
Is this mass migration caused by prevailing southwesterly winds? Kismet? Mother nature’s perverse sense of humor?
I don’t know.
But I do know that Scottie has an industrial strength leaf blower and when he fires it up it can be heard all over town. Despite all this power, he is powerless against the insurmountable onslaught of leaves. He fights a never-ending battle at the bottom of the street while Dr John stands at the top of the street.
Watching him.
And laughing.
