There’s a sound disappearing from modern life. It’s the sound of rooms being swept at the end of the day. First the rugs are removed and shaken with a fortitude that produces a cracking snap. Snap. Snap. This reveals the day’s remnants – a watermelon seed, a tiny piece of hardened tar and something unrecognizable. The rugs are retired to the clothesline or a porch rail while the rooms, particularly the high-traffic kitchen, are swept.
Then the porch, the steps and the sidewalk are swept. That sound is missing too. It’s been replaced by the gas-powered blower; a sound that mars the tranquility of an early morning snowfall. My neighbor owns a gas-powered blower. She’s fastidious and uses it on her driveway and sidewalks all year round – on leaves, snow, dust, you name it. Luckily for me, she’s also a considerate neighbor and doesn’t fire up her blower before 8 a.m. even though I know she’s ready to blow at 6 a.m.
My grandmother had a broom hanging right outside the kitchen at the top of the basement steps, ready for daily use. My grandfather had a broom inside the door of his gas station. He ran that gas station for over 60 years and everything in it, including his broom, were original. His broom took on the smell of its locale and its duties– gasoline, Lucky Strikes and 10W-40 oil. As a kid I’d help him sweep up at the end of a long, hot Minnesota summer day. The broom bristles deposited cigarette butts to a designated corner. I was rewarded with a cold black cherry pop and his confidential observations and opinions on the day’s customers.
Brooms are useful for other things, too.
I often evict a confused cat from my garden with one swipe, just before it turns my lilies into its litter box. I unsnag small branches hung up in the gutters. My broom’s stiff bristles are firm but forgiving. They are strong enough to lean on as my neighbor complains about our current president. After a heavy snowfall, my broom is strong enough to move snow, but gentle enough not to leave a scratch on the car. I don’t need any horsepower except my own.
When my sister and I were young, she was assigned the task of sneaking a dozen eggs from the refrigerator, and I would grab the broom. We’d head out back to a secluded, sunny spot where we had piled dirt. There, we’d crack eggs until we ran out of either eggs or daylight. I’d use the broom handle to stir the two together. Once the egg and dirt had been patted into mud pies, I’d twirl the broom around and sweep up, and voilà – our bakery was open for business.
A broom is elegant simplicity, nothing superfluous. It combines business and beauty. And who can object to the sound of a broom? The few brooms I do see these days are often in bad shape. I can’t bear the sight of a mistreated broom. Splayed out bristles, left out in the rain to wick up moisture. Unforgiveable.
There is something hopeful about a broom as the person on the other end begins a rhythmic act of transformation.
My day ends with a sweep of the front stoop, then I move down the steps to the sidewalk, where I rest my chin on the broom handle and snatch the day’s last light.
So let me correct an oversight.
There’s Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” so why not “Ode on a Broom”? Anything as useful and beautifully designed as a broom should be eulogized.