Sweeping Out the Garage

Guess what I was doing when the idea for this story came to me? By the way, that red squirrel...It really does exist!!

The old man spent more than a few minutes at his task. Taking his time, in fact, as if there was nothing more important to do on this cloudy, mild, December day other than sweep out the floor of the garage. He used a push broom-a long wooden pole with worn, bent, black bristles that he pulled towards himself instead of pushing, making you wonder why he did it that way. But he was methodical, that was for sure, starting at the far right hand corner and working his way across the floor to the left. He'd backed his old four-door Ford out onto the driveway before he'd begun, the weather being a balmy forty-three degrees, not like a Minnesota winter at all. A good day to work outside. He had the entire two car space to sweep, getting rid of sand and gravel and grit, all accumulated during the last few weeks; weeks when it had snowed, then rained and then been followed by this warm up they were presently experiencing. He called the stuff debris and there was a lot of it on the floor. And now there he was, sweeping (or pulling, rather) the broom over the cracked and stained concrete surface with a deliberation that, after a while, made you sort of admire him for being so conscientious.

            He was slightly bent in the back and he seemed to carry there a lifetime of physical work and stiffness as he paused to rest and adjust the hat he wore. The wool stocking hat his wife had knit for him for Christmas three years ago, the year before she'd died. It gave him a sense of more than warmth, something closer to security, knowing that, though gone from this world, she was still with him in so many little ways; little ways like this treasured hat, knit for him by her knowing fingers using hand-dyed wool from Ireland. Its heathery-orange was a color he loved and they'd picked it out while shopping together at her favorite yarn shop. The hat covered his thinning hair which nearly matched the color of his jeans, so well worn from all those years of washing that they, like his hair, were almost white.

            Above him, in the rafters, a red squirrel had taken up residence. And what a nuisance that rodent was, scattering chewed up black walnut hulls and pulverized shell powder all over the place, adding to the debris on the floor. For years those black walnuts had been the bane of the old man's existence. Trees out in the yard dropped the nuts throughout the summer and the neighborhood squirrels collected them, storing them everywhere. This particular red squirrel acted like he owned the garage, or at least the space in the rafters. This was the second year it had been up there. What a mess, the old guy thought to himself, unscrewing the brush part of the broom from the handle and using it to sweep off his work bench. It was located along the left hand wall unfortunately positioned directly below where the majority of hulls seemed to be strategically stored. Hulls that now were tumbling off the bench onto the floor, bouncing and rolling all over the place as he went after them methodically, brushing the work surface clean. When he was finished he sighed as he put the broom back together and continued with his sweeping, thinking he should probably do something about that damn squirrel. Well, maybe next year. For now it was just him, all alone out there, pulling the broom, stepping to the left and pulling it some more, debris piles getting larger as he worked his way across to the left hand wall. Then, shuffling in his work boots, he slowly and stiffly made his way back across to the right hand side of the garage to start the process all over again. Almost like a dance, it looked like, this old guy and his broom.

            He didn't notice but up in the rafters the resident red squirrel was watching. Normally an aggressive species, for now the squirrel was content to just look down on the old guy, choosing not to chatter and scold and cause a commotion. The squirrel could wait. It had stored hundreds if not thousands of black walnuts up in the safely of the rafters. It had a whole winter ahead and lots of nuts to crack open, lots of debris to scatter. The squirrel was warm and safe as it watched becoming mesmerized by the way the old man worked, back and forth, back and forth. After awhile it's eyes grew heavy and it fell asleep.

            The squirrel could have no way of knowing, of course, but It has been like this for a few years now, this obsession of the old man's with cleaning out the garage.  Ever since he'd lost his wife to cancer two years ago, just before the winter holidays began, he has felt compelled to keep things clean. Both inside the house (the home they'd shared for over forty years) and outside. This compulsion of his is strong in him. This overwhelming desire, or need, really, to keep things tidy. To be honest, she had been more of the one to do the inside work and he the outside during the years they'd been married. Back when she'd been alive. It just worked out that way. A silently agreed upon splitting up of tasks and division of labor. It had served them well. But now with her gone he has taken it upon himself to do both. Both the work inside the house and outside. One could insert the word try here when it comes to the inside cleaning. He would never measure up to her standards when it came to housework, of course, but he tried. He did his best. But it was the outside work, like taking care of the gardens or cutting the grass or, for sure, like sweeping out the garage, that he felt he was in his best element. Felt he really shined. Especially when it came to keeping the garage floor clean. So that's what he does now. And he does it with a care and a passion that, if you took the time to watch and think about, was really quite remarkable.

            Remarkable maybe or, at the very least, touching. This old man, living by himself, sweeping out the garage on a mild winter's day. Watched over by a sleepy red squirrel as he moves across the floor, working with his broom, sweeping back and forth, back and forth, as if time has no more meaning to him than this. This sweeping and cleaning all the while as he remembers the past and all those good years he and his wife spent together. Those good years and their life long bond and how they had enjoyed taking care of their home both inside and out.