They say you become the thing you hate, but if that were true I'd be a plate of boiled spinach that told George Lucas he should make "Star Wars" prequels. Nevertheless, I became a worse person last week, one of the people you absolutely hate.
Let's back up a bit. Last spring the trees sprouted leaves, as is their wont, and in the fall they fell, as is their other wont. I could have raked them, but I refuse to do that; too many leaves. Trees are like out-of-control copy machines.
Instead, a crew corralled the leaves with huge blowing machines, which make a sound like a T. rex with a toothache.
It's the worst sound. It rises, drones, does not abate, then falls, then rises again. Everyone hates the sound of people leaf blowing, just as they hate the sound of someone vacuum cleaning the house. But you hate the vacuum sound because A) you know the person doing it wishes you'd done it, and B) you know the person doing the vacuuming couldn't care less what you think, because you're not vacuuming.
Could the irritation possibly be from the note leaf blowers sing? I believe it's middle C, the most beige-vanilla note of them all. Why not market leaf blowers that have adjustable notes, so the neighborhood could play an interesting chord?
"Bob, you going to get out your blower tomorrow morning? Harvey's blower's out for repairs and we need an E flat. It adds a little wistfulness. A sense of rueful, bluesy regret."
"Sure. But I'll warn you, I'm a bit out of practice."
This spring we had minor yard waste left over when the snow perished, and my friend the Giant Swede suggested I get a mulcher. It would suck up the leaves and convert them into leaf chaff. He recommended something I'll call the U-Blo X-843b, just so this doesn't sound like an endorsement.