Sharp, prattling noises on the RV roof woke me up. "Hell, it's raining," I said, as I shot up in bed to check the windows. Then the rain-like noises subsided. "Damn squirrels are playin' games all over my roof." But a quick look out of the window and I knew in an instant, it wasn't rain or a roof full of jumping furry critters. Not unlike a snow flurry, massive numbers of crisp, brown oak leaves were tumbling and spinning down in the breeze. I've seen rain, snow and sleet storms but this was my first leaf storm. February through March in Tampa, in my RV.

I lived amongst old oak trees, called Live Oak, common to Florida. A weird name since a few weren't alive. Some oaks were reported to be over a hundred years old, many well over sixty feet tall having six to ten, thick, hefty, roughly ridged trunks branching from the massive buttressed, flared main trunk, too broad at the base to put two people's arms around. Trunks extended up and outward like octopi, stretching to co-mingle with neighboring trees to form a thick canopy.

Quercus virginiana, the Live Oak, different from the Water Oak and the Laurel Oak, is the state tree of Georgia. Fast growing, it forms a large spreading crown in low sandy soils and locally, creates aerial highways for an enormous hoard of squirrels and the ubiquitous epiphytic Spanish moss. And, as you know, oaks produce acorns.

Those damned acorns. And what's wrong with acorns, you may ask? Well, if you lived underneath those huge oaks you learned they dropped those depth charge rocks on your roof and environs, generating impromptu slaps, bops and rolling stones on the roof at any time of the day or night. The acorns, ¾ to 1" long, occur singly or in clusters of three to five. Boom, boom, roll, roll, roll. Now, where was I?

The copious production of dead leaves, twigs, sap, acorns and other tiny black materials from those old giants is indeed, overkill. When the elliptical, 2" to 5" long by ½" to 2½" wide, very brittle, profuse and leathery leaves flutter down, they are seen as various shades of browns, but mostly dark brown on the top and lighter browns underneath, giving the ground a variety of shades of tans, beiges and dark browns. The leaves are so abundant they form deep layers, like snow. Too bad they don't melt. Very little grass grows on the leaf covered white-ish sandy soil, but huge colonies of ants seem to love the ecology. It seemed to me the leaves gave them something to do.

Leaves were always fluttering down, falling as new leaf growth emerged, cascading in vast numbers when breezes blew. Walking around my place would generate loud crunching noises with each step and awkward looking scraps of limbs and twisted twigs would snap their response to any trespasser. Snap, crackle and pop on the dry, odorless tree detritus, like the sound effects from an old creepy movie, made covert activities impossible. One scurrying squirrel sounded like a stampede.

Having massive numbers of crispy leaves surrounding me was indeed, different, and the noises the stiff leaves and rock-like acorns made on the roof took a bit of getting used to. I enjoy the sound of rain on the roof, but, it wasn't pouring rain, it was pouring crusty leaves and pebbles.

The winter's accumulations of oak materials were an unusual spectacle for me. I was used to grass surrounding me, at least that's this snow bird's past experience. White sand, covered with many layers of different shades of brown crunchy leaves and other tree products surrounded me. That was different. And the undersides of many individual leaves supported many round brown, quarter inch, bubble-like masses, a symptom I guess, of a parasite or a stage in a bug's life cycle waiting to chew itself out later in spring.

Some of my neighbors raked their areas creating huge hillocks of dried leaves. Others had the unmitigated gall to use a leaf blower with its blistering, irritating, screaming high pitched whine, blowing dust and allergens everywhere, and fer schure, shattering the peace.

For me, since I lived in a veritable oak forest, hell, let the leaves be. Fits my retirement style and I knew I wouldn't have any problem pulling my RV out from the accumulation of all those layers of leaves.

The canopy was also home to a variety of musically inept birds. Birds that used five AM as a perfect time to broadcast their monotone, repetitive loops of uninspired chirps. Their lack of a repertoire like song birds soon became obvious, not unlike dogs with incessant, nonsensical barking. Ah, nature. Ya gotta love it.

Although I'm no forester gerontologist, or have an interest in tree euthanasia, in my view this stand of Live Oaks needed significant and aggressive pruning, trimming and culling. Some Live Oaks have completed their life cycle and have died leaving tall, thick outreaching trunks in apparent supplication to the arbor gods.

Others were in declining old age and may be hazards to those who live beneath them in hurricane-prone Florida. And since the Live Oak is one of the heaviest mature hardwoods, at fifty-five pounds per cubic foot, hard, tough, strong and used for structural beams, they must be valuable, no? Time for a harvest?

In addition, March was Live Oak reproduction time in Florida. Pollen, pollen everywhere. New Live Oaks on the horizon? My blue pick-up truck was covered with a deep layer of yellow pollen. Do the primary colors of blue and yellow make green?

Evidently.

As the bazillions of thin, inch long, bush-like producers of the blankets of that yellow powder subsequently fell in immeasurable quantities adding much more debris, I was back on the RV roof again sweeping off pounds of forest residue. And as if these Live Oaks weren't live enough, after the pollen dust, tiny red blossoms soon dropped, staining anything they fell on, as if whatever was underneath was bleeding.

As my eyes watered and nose ran, I hoped the season would be short. Those old Live Oaks were nothing to sneeze at. Perhaps they are too alive, since when I thought of Florida, I thought of palm trees.

Geeze. And to think I was a career biologist.

With apologies to Walt Whitman.