The Willow Glen Resident

Hearing the seductive call of the leaf-blower

A waste of gas, yes--but worth an uproar?

By Rebecca Wallace

As I sank down gratefully into a quiet shady spot under a tree at River Glen Park, I was startled by the sight of a man many curse and some fear.

He was tall, dark and enigmatic, the lower half of his face muffled by a surgical mask. In his hands, a leaf-blower.

He nodded politely and turned to go about his business in another corner of the park. The familiar mournful tune began to drone out across Willow Glen. And I felt lulled as I ate my lunch, relaxed by the sun and sky and grass--and the sound of the suburbanites' foghorn.

There are some who denounce the evil leaf-blower, who condemn its omnipresent voice as the end of calm and quiet. But for me it meant an escape from downtown San Jose and a welcome half-hour of peace in the Glen.

I have never been a city person. I was born and raised in the suburbs, pedaled my bicycle through the farm fields of Davis during college and will probably always live in the 'burbs. And I admit I am not used to the concrete traffic of downtown, music slamming from cars, the jeering and whistling men riding bikes on the sidewalk, tires screeching, suspicious-looking policemen. So I choose to be a bit sheltered when I can.

And I wonder why some people get so worked up over the little things that go on in suburbia and friendly city neighborhoods like Willow Glen when overall they are pretty decent places to be.

Why, in the very town I grew up in, Menlo Park, the issue of leaf-blowers caused such an uproar that councilmembers were said to receive hundreds of irate letters and calls on both sides of the issue. When the City Council discussed banning gas-powered leaf-blowers earlier this month, angry gardeners picketed the city Civic Center and marched through the streets of downtown. Many Latino gardeners said the ban was racist. Quel mess.

Granted, I don't think leaf-blowers are very practical. They're a waste of gasoline when a rake would do the job just as well, even if it does require substantially more elbow grease. It's just that in some circles they've become the rallying cry for the whole noise debate--which is a bit louder than it needs to be.

Much ado about very little, when it's the small things about suburbia, and Willow Glen, that can make you so happy. As I ate my lunch in River Glen Park last week, the grass was warm against my nyloned feet when I kicked off my shoes. From the trees above, squirrels dropped acorns dangerously close to my head and chattered to each other.

I had a good book in my hand and a homemade chocolate-chip cookie in my brown paper sack. And I was looking forward to buying my usual loaf of wine-walnut bread at Le Boulanger for dinner.

The leaf-blower droned on, and a neighbor's dog barked repeatedly. Children screamed in the swings on the other side of the park, and a jet flew by overhead, some might say too low. Somewhere, perhaps, a man was complaining of a weeklong cough, certainly sustained by walking too close to the La Villa barbecue smoke. A woman was offended by her neighbors' choice of drapes.

And yet somehow I managed to feel pretty good.

Rebecca Wallace is the editor of The Willow Glen Resident.

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