The maple tree in my backyard is probably my favorite, with leaves that turn from burgundy to a fiery red every fall. A close second is an oak across the street that glows yellow around the same time, stopping me in my tracks when I open my front door.

I gasp and gawk at the season’s colors, dragging the children on chilly hikes in the woods just to catch a better glimpse of the painted hillsides.

But by Thanksgiving, all that colorful wonder collapses like a drab, brown blanket on my lawn. I’m left with nothing but a rake and a dreary chore to remind me that winter is upon us and my neighbor can now see into my bathroom window until next spring.

When I finally get around to raking the crunchy carnage, I often think of Arnold Lobel’s children’s story, “The Surprise,” where Frog secretly rakes Toad’s leaves, just as Toad does the same for Frog. The amphibian pals finish their respective jobs and head home while the leaves do what they do best: blow back over everything. No matter, because Frog and Toad go to bed content, innocently believing that at least their friend has a tidy yard.