As birthdays come faster, I often contemplate how life can change in an instant. There are three constants: death, taxes and bad brooms.
I find myself pondering what would happen if I vanished today. Who would understand the garden's intricate needs, its subtle tweaks, and why and how decent brooms should be used? Gardening isn't rocket science, but still.
Take sweeping skills, for example. There are sweepers, and Sweepers. Sensibly, therefore, there are brooms, and Brooms. Mostly, both fall into the first category.
Usually, brooms are wielded in a desultory manner; trash feels unthreatened; crisp, finished edges are unknown. The broom-master is NOT master of the situation.
Proper Brooms are perfectly designed to whisk away objectionable debris, but their controllers haven't a clue. Teamwork is essential.
Sweeping properly is extremely important. If I interviewed an apprentice, the first thing I'd do is put a Broom in her hand, and ask her to have a go. I'd immediately grasp what sort of worker she'd be.
Would she sweep with authority? Would she maneuver the Broom, cleverly clearing cracks? Would she use broad sweeps, and not crab along with useless, no-pressure "little old lady" motions? I want a commander! What I see most often are broom wimps.
Let's examine the tool itself.
A common kitchen broom sports sleek nylon bristles, which don't frighten trash, bend easily and are usually clipped at a rakish angle, reminiscent of a skinny model wearing a shimmer-y Sassoon haircut. The slim, bright blue, green or even crackerjack-red plastic handle is often screwed/glued into its holding hole, which goes wobbly after doing just a few jobs. The annoyed operator winds up re-securing it, over and over. Sigh... It shweeps. Trash yawns.
Other brooms LOOK traditional; these might have the usual long (but skinnier) wooden handle that fits nicely into a receptacle at the top of the business end. The straw is cut straight and feels OK. But, like thinning hair expertly blown dry to appear thicker, these bristles are insubstantial; they'll go limp when asked to perform.
Alas, a test run is never done. People see a reasonable-looking broom; they snatch it up and trot to the checkout counter. Only later do they realize they've bought a broom, lured by the red stitching and traditional look. Their hands know something isn't right; it feels oddly inadequate. Hushing their "little voice," they'll shweep dutifully, secretly annoyed at lackluster results. Snicker-snack, their tool will develop "broom-bottom-sag," which is incurable. The baffled operator shrugs.
I own Brooms. Each is well made. Hefty. The long handle is thicker than its doppelganger; it's made of hardwood. No cute color has been applied. A stout screw insures there will never be bristle-wibble.
The business end is heavy; if a fascinated buyer holds this Broom up against the other one, the difference is instantly obvious. It's got muscle. THIS plain stitching is like iron. There are many more densely compacted bristles, which are cut thick, straight and even, with a wide, stiff skirt; those stout ends resist sag.
This. Broom. Sweeps. It's a work of art -- the result of centuries of tweaking.
Lastly, because these Brooms are constantly used, their bristles will shorten, shortly. Wise operators retire exhausted Brooms, then march out to farm or hardware stores for another, which, of course, they'll test-sweep. Experienced operators keep bristles protected when the tool is resting. Some even store Brooms upside down, to prevent their bristles from snagging.
I've worn out many a stalwart Broom. Trash trembles; edges gleam. Together, we make clean sweeps!
Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She will write throughout the winter, and can be reached care of the Record-Eagle, or via e-mail at blairdee@gmail.com. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at blogs.record-eagle.com.
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