Street Sweepers
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Our story tonight
is called Street Sweepers, and it's a story about about an early morning tending of the village lanes.
It's also about hoppers and windrows, zinnia heads and locust pods, clearing small floods near blocked up drains,
and a simple but important way to care for a place you love.
Now,
lights out, campers.
Snuggle down into your sheets
and let your whole body
relax.
The day is over.
It's over.
Nothing left to do
or attend to.
Soften your jaw,
your shoulders,
your hands,
and your feet.
Draw a deep breath in through your nose
and sigh from your mouth.
Once more, breathe in
and let it out.
Good
Street Sweepers
There was certainly a time in my life
when I didn't find much pleasure in being the first one up,
when my body just required too much rest
to rise before the sun.
Those days still hold their own allure.
Being able to sleep
into the late morning,
waking, feeling so replete and relaxed,
then able to stay up late,
to have adventures that didn't start until long after the sun went down.
Maybe I am romanticizing those times now.
But no,
they were romantic.
They were fun.
And now,
so is this.
So is being alone on the street at dawn
as the sky just begins to shade lighter by a degree at a time.
The air is so fresh and clean,
it feels like the molecules have just come off the production line.
I stood for a few moments,
breathing them in,
breathing them out,
knowing a moment
of true excitement for being alive and awake,
just where I was.
Then began to sort through my brushes and rakes,
outfitting my sweeper
for the morning's work.
There is more than one of us in the village a whole crew, in fact.
But our sweepers are stored all across the town.
So I was on my own as I climbed aboard.
She started right up,
and I steered her out of her garage
and onto the street.
Each neighborhood gets to name their own sweeper,
and this has led to a friendly rivalry.
Each set of streets looking for the best name.
The cleaner by the park was called
a broom with a view.
Grime and punishment worked through downtown,
west of the village by the cemetery.
The grim sweeper cleaned up,
and my own avenues were tended by sweep dreams,
a nod to my own tendency to be the first one at work,
quietly cleaning
while the houses around me slept.
I rode close to the curb,
watching the bristles of the gutter broom rotating
and clearing away debris.
This time of year, we were cleaning up linden blossoms and locust pods.
There was still a bit of cottonwood fluff,
plenty of grass clippings and whirly birds.
I could see marigold heads and zinnia leaves that had blown from someone's yard.
It was all swept into the main broom,
the rotating bristles that lived in the belly of sweep dreams
they in turn swept the windrow into the hopper
behind me a fine mist was spraying out onto the pavement
to keep dust down until the next cleaning
it was a very satisfying experience
to roll slowly down the street
and see the clutter in front of me,
then
to turn in my seat
and see the clean, damp road behind.
The scope of work for a street sweeper
depended very much on the season.
And while you'd not likely be surprised to hear
that autumn is a very busy time of year for us,
there are moments from spring through summer that rival it
when the cottonwood flies at the end of May,
the sweepers shake their heads at the snow drifts of sticky fluff
piled along the curbs.
We sighed and clucked our tongues in July
when the heat led maples and lindens to drip sap onto the street,
turning every loose leaf gummy and clogging up our bristles
And don't even get me started on parades
Heavy end of the season storms Cogged drains with twigs and mud
Though
And I think I wasn't alone in this
Coming across a small flood at a gutter
and raking out the debris
till the water began to spin
and spiral
and empty through the spillway
was actually something I looked forward to.
Sometimes a homeowner would wave me down,
point toward a blocked-up drain on a side street,
and a small crowd would gather till I cleared it out.
They'd clap
as it drained,
and I'd stop to take a bow.
I turned down another street,
continuing to sweep away dust and dirt.
I noticed a gray cat in a window watching me as I inched past.
I raised a hand to wave to her,
but she blinked in a slow way
that felt like a returned greeting.
In another house, I saw windows being pushed open on the ground floor,
a front door pulled back to let the breeze in.
The village was starting to come to life.
So far,
I hadn't seen a stretch of road
that needed more than one pass
Until I rounded the curve by the corner store
And saw the cement speckled
with nickel sized purple stains
I paused, sweep dreams,
Then turned her key to off
and climbed down
The arch enemy of the street sweeper had arrived.
Mulberries.
I circled the stained section of concrete,
eyeing the mass,
and taking out my handkerchief to wipe my glasses.
Out came my hose.
I started by washing down the curb and pavement
with a bit of cleaner.
Then I selected the right size hand broom
and got to scrubbing.
The next few weeks
would see me doing the same here
day after day.
But
I wouldn't be bowed by the persistence of the berries.
I, too,
could be persistent.
After I scrubbed and rehung my broom,
I climbed aboard and started sweep dreams back up.
We rolled over the sudsy mess slowly,
and I looked behind us to see that we'd made good progress.
At the corner, I turned and made a second pass.
The street was nearly stain-free now,
but still, I stopped to rinse the spot with my hose
one more time
to flush the last bits of soap and seeds down the sewer.
I liked a job well done,
a job that was completed
even if it took a bit of extra time and energy.
It was a point pride to me
that the streets in my territory
were well tended and cared for.
It was probably something that people didn't really notice.
They'd only be likely to notice the mess,
not the lack of it.
But that was okay with me.
I was happy to work in the background
and give the village a sense of order,
being well kept.
I thought it lent itself to the overall sense of this place
just as a good place to be.
That was enough.
I re-hung the hose and kept on with my work.
When I got sweep dreams back to her garage,
I cleaned out the bristles of her brushes,
emptied her hopper,
and refilled her tanks for tomorrow.
Outside, the sun was rising above the horizon,
and traffic was just beginning to pick up.
I gave my sweeper a pat on the hood.
Those mulberries would be back to morrow
but so would we.
Street sweepers
There was certainly a time in my life
when I didn't find much pleasure in being the first one up
when my body just required too much rest
to rise before the sun.
Those days
hold their own allure.
Being able to sleep into the late morning,
waking feeling
so replete
and relaxed,
then
able to stay up late
to have adventures
that didn't start
until long after the sun went down.
Maybe I am romanticizing those times now,
but
no,
they were romantic.
They were fun,
and so is this
so is being alone on the street at dawn
as the sky just begins to shade lighter
by a degree at a time
the air is so fresh and clean
it feels like the molecules
have just come off the production line.
I stood for a few moments,
breathing them in,
breathing them out,
knowing a moment
of true excitement for being alive
and awake
just where I was.
Then
began to sort
through my brushes and rakes,
outfitting my sweeper for the morning's work.
There is more than one of us in the village,
a whole crew, in fact.
But our sweepers are stored all across the town.
So
I was on my own
as I climbed aboard.
She started right up,
and I steered her out of the garage
and on to the street.
Each neighborhood gets to name their own sweeper
And
this has led to a friendly rivalry
Each set of streets
looking for the best name
The cleaner by the park
was called
a broom with a view.
Crime and punishment
worked through downtown,
west of the village, by the cemetery.
The grim sweeper cleaned up,
and my own avenues were tended by sweep dreams,
a nod to my tendency to be the first one at work,
quietly clearing
while the houses around me slept.
I rode close to the curb,
watching the bristles
of a gutter broom
rotating
and clearing away debris.
This time of year
we were cleaning up linden blossoms
and locust pods.
There was still a bit of cottonwood fluff
and plenty of grass clippings
and whirly birds.
I could see marigold heads
and zinny leaves
that had blown from someone's yard.
It was all swept into the main broom,
the rotating bristles
that lived in the belly of sweet dreams
They in turn
swept the windrow
into the hopper.
Behind me
a fine mist was spraying out
on to the pavement
to keep dust down
until the next cleaning.
It was
a very satisfying experience
to roll
slowly down the street
and see the clutter in front of me,
then to turn in my seat
and see the clean, damp road behind.
The scope of work
for a street sweeper
depended very much
on the season,
and while you're not likely to be surprised to hear
that autumn is a very busy time of year for us
there are moments
in the spring and summer
that rival it
when the cottonwood flies
at the end of May
The sweepers shake their heads at the snow drifts
of sticky fluff piled along the curbs.
We sighed
and clicked our tongues in July
when the heat
led maples and lindens
to drip sap into the street,
turning every loose leaf gummy
and clogging up our bristles.
And don't even get me started on parades,
heavy end-of-the-season storms,
clogged drains with twigs and mud,
though,
and I think
I wasn't alone in this.
Coming across a small flood at a gutter
and raking out the debris
till the water began to spin
and spiral
and empty through the spillway
was actually something I looked forward to.
Sometimes a homeowner would wave me down,
point toward a blocked up drain on a side street,
and a small crowd would gather
till I cleared it out.
They'd clap as it drained,
and I'd stop to take a bow.
I turned down another street,
continuing to sweep away dust and dirt.
I noticed a gray cat
in a window, watching me as I inched past.
I raised a hand to wave to her,
and she blinked in a slow way
that felt like a returned greeting.
In another house,
I saw windows
being pushed open on the ground floor.
A front door pulled back to let the breeze in.
The village was starting to come to life.
So far,
I hadn't seen a stretch of road
that needed more than one pass
until
I rounded the curve by the corner store
and saw the cement speckled
with nickel-sized purple stains.
I paused sweep dreams,
then turned her key to off and climbed down
The archenemy of the street sweeper
had arrived.
Mulberries
I circled the stained section of concrete,
eyeing the mess
and taking out my handkerchief to wipe my glasses.
Out came my hose.
I started by washing down the curb and pavement with a bit of cleaner,
then selected the right size hand broom
and got to scrubbing.
The next few weeks would see me doing the same here,
day
after day
But
I wouldn't be bowed by the persistence of the berries.
I too
could be persistent.
After I scrubbed and re-hung my broom
I climbed aboard
and started started sweep dreams back up.
We rolled over the sudsea mess slowly.
I looked behind us
to see that we'd made good progress.
At the corner I turned
and made a second pass.
The street was nearly stain free now
But I still stopped to rinse the spot with my hose
one more time
To flush the last bits of soap and seeds down the sewer.
I liked a job well well done,
a job that was completed,
even if it took a bit
of extra time and energy.
It was a point of pride to me
that the streets in my territory were well tended and cared for.
It was probably something that
people didn't really notice.
They'd only be likely to notice the mess,
not the lack of it.
But that was okay with me.
I was happy to work in the background
and give the village a sense of order and being well
I thought it lent itself to the overall sense of this place
as a good place to be.
And that was enough.
I re-hung the hose
and kept on with my work.
When I got sweep dreams
back to her garage,
I cleaned the bristles of her brushes,
emptied her hopper,
and refilled her tanks for tomorrow.
Outside, the sun was rising above the horizon,
and traffic was just beginning to pick up.
I gave my sweeper a pat on the hood.
Those mulberries would be back to morrow,
but so would we,
sweet dreams.