I <3 Bob.

    If you look at the Oregon coast from the point of view of a rake there isn’t much too see:  rocks, waves, cranberry bushes, poison ivy, banjos, hot tubs.

    Rakes need soft dirt, preferably flat, and a lost soul, preferably single.  The Devil’s Churn is lost on a rake; crashing waves and whirlpools and suicidal drops don’t make an impression when the craving is for a barn floor strewn with sawdust and manure.  At the coast, the dead whales stink and leak blood and the old lady at the candy shop selling homemade dark-chocolate-covered-sea-foam tells you to wear a jacket, because the July wind chills.  Running down the beach, chasing a disappearing dog makes your eardrums ache from the cold.  The rotting fish smell at the pier makes you throw up a little but you hide it because the hot surfer guy just might ask you out.

    “I remember raking patterns in the dirt and arguing over the name of the herring bone style,” T said.

    “The cranberry fields will be flooded next month; we should go watch the picking.”

    “Maybe.”

    Some people measure the seasons using a calendar.  Some have an internal sense that the days are shortening.  Some people touch a rake and feel the winter coming through the metal handle.

    “He put it on me.”

    “What?” T asked.

    “The rake.”

    Salvador used to say, “Con jamon? Or con jabon?” while he was raking to pass the time.  I say genocide to all rakes.  Use a shovel.