When I was a little girl, I remember sitting on the steps of our apartment house in San Francisco, watching the Russian ladies who lived in the area out on the sidewalk with babushkas covering their hair, brooms in hand, sweeping the streets in front of their places until everything was sparkling and clean. They would also come out with pails of soap and water and wash the stairs and the stoops. I’d wave my arms in the air, imagining I was directing their actions, and always the peaceful sound of swish, swoop, swish could be heard. That image, and the remnant of an age gone by when a rag man would come up our street with his horse and cart, are wonderful memories from long ago that enrich my reflections. The rag man was an oddity then – it was the last gasp of an era gone by – but as a little girl, I found watching him come by, hearing the clip clop of his horse’s hooves, and the sound of wooden wheels squeaking on the pavement, fascinating and poignant.
I recall when I first moved from the City to the suburbs as a child, and we mowed our lawn. You could hear the sound of blades churning as kids or parents were out taking care of their gardens. There weren’t a lot of gardeners in those days – at least not where we lived – people did the household chores and garden chores on Saturday together. It was a great symphony of cooperation. Chop, chop, swish, swoosh. Blades and sweeping – no ear splitting motors, just the contentment of knowing all was right in the world and all the neighbors were out participating in the rite of house care that meant families caring for their homes together.
When electric mowers came into existence, and then leaf blowers, it coincided with acid rock and raised decibels – noise as music, noise as efficiency, noise as a way of life. I never would use the electric mower. My husband was thrilled to have it. In fact, it wasn’t until we got one that he took over the job of mowing lawns. Before that, I was the Saturday lawn contingent. I don’t have a lawn anymore. I prefer plants and shrubs and flowers.
When I go out to the garden and bring my broom, I can sweep to my heart’s content. It doesn’t disturb the birds, doesn’t ruffle the air, and brings me back to a simpler time when people appreciated the task of mowing and sweeping, and used the time to engage in quiet reverie.
The rhythm of the broom is a dance unto itself – and it is always in those moments of sweeping in the garden that new ideas are birthed in my thought process. No Walkman, no IPod, no Talk Radio to distract me. Just the broom, the fallen leaves and blossoms, sounds of nature, and me.
Swish, swoosh, swish, swoosh….Ahhhh.