Sweeping the Sidewalk

The maple tree out front is fertile with seed. Our driveway and sidewalk are rust colored with its velvety droppings. Today I finally got out the broom and cleaned up a bit.

When I sweep our sidewalk or driveway, even now, more than forty-five years later, I still flash back to one of the two brave days of my life. I was not the person sweeping the alley behind the Holubar Mountaineering store in Denver, but all I have to do is to move the broom over concrete, and I see the man who was. 

It must have been winter or early spring. There was snow on the ground. I was nineteen, and I had just dropped out of college so that I could immerse myself into the cult that had found me the summer before.

I was shopping for hiking boots while on my lunch break from my job at a small, independent newspaper. At the cash register, a store clerk asked me if I had driven to the store, and when I said yes, he asked if I could give a ride to some kids. The kids, who were nowhere to be seen, had thrown snowballs at a car out front in the parking lot, and there was fear for their safety. I, a naive, young woman, agreed to drive around to the alley where the boys would be waiting. 

I carried my new hiking boots out to my yellow VW beetle and drove around to the alley, not knowing who I would find or where I would find them. That's when the sight of a man sweeping dust etched itself into my mind. When he saw me coming, he signaled to someone inside the open door, and out came three boys who may have been eleven or twelve years old. They quickly jumped into my backseat and folded themselves down onto the floor. In my rear-view mirror, I saw a big, mobster-looking American car entering the alley. That was the car that had been hit by the snowballs. 

I drove faster than ideal for alley driving, turned onto the street, then took a right onto a busier main street. Traffic was stopped for a red light. But my little yellow VW beetle could squeeze between a car and the curb and gain access to the turn lane. The big, mobster-looking American car could not. So I squeezed and I turned and I ignored speed limits and I got those kids home. Then I went back to work, probably telling my about my adventure to my office mates, never telling it to my parents.

I love that this story comes back to me when I sweep the sidewalk. I love the young woman who gave those kids a ride. I am not sure that today I would do the same thing.