TALES FROM AN OLD RUSTY NAIL

How many years it kept its vigil hanging from that old rusty nail near the front of the garage, I could not guess.

It was a whisk broom, a small hand broom used to clean dirt from vehicle floorboards and mats.

Worn to a nub from years of use, this little hand broom had few active bristles remaining to perform its task.

If you can remember or if you have one, these little brooms fit nicely in your hand, with straw-like bristles sown into a handle with heavy twine holding everything tightly in place.

This particular whisk broom stood guard hanging from a rusty nail in my father-in-law’s vintage wood-frame garage. It was worn completely down to the handle, to a nub, testimony that it had more than done its duty.

Two or three times a year, we traveled from Orlando or Lakeland, Fla. to Tuscaloosa, Ala., in the mid ‘70s. Upon arrival, our vehicle was usually window high deep in debris, caused by three young children traveling 10 hours non-stop in a station wagon.

My father-in-law was a teenage child of the depression. Born in 1917 in rural Alabama close to the Mississippi line, his large family of brothers and sisters scratched out a meager farm living with a mule and a plow.

Life then was making do with what was at hand. Nothing was discarded even if it had far outlived its usefulness. Even if you no longer needed it, you kept it. Simply hammer another rusty nail into a weathered wood beam in the barn or garage, and hang it up.

Arriving at my father-in-laws house, the first chore was unloading the car. The second chore was cleaning the car – washing and sweeping out the debris from the 10-hour trip. Several times I attempted to use the well worn nubby rundown whisk broom, but it had long ago lost its cleaning powers.

Finally on one visit, I went to the hardware store and bought a new broom. The old one, I placed in the trash. As with any new broom, it swept clean, and after its initial use, I placed it on the old rusty nail which once holstered the nubby.

On a return trip probably about six months later, I went through the usual routine -- unloading the car, washing the car, sweeping out car.

Remembering that I had purchased a new whisk broom on the last trip, I went to the old rusty nail for the new broom. It was gone. There in its place was old nubby. He had salvaged it from the trash, and returned it to its rightful hanging place.

I found the new one, which I had purchased last trip, hanging from another rusty nail near by.

Oh you children of the depression. You of the greatest generation. You who stormed the beaches of Normandy and Guadalcanal. You who rescues everything from trash bins, who cleans every bite of food from your dinner plate, who stuffs your pantries and cellars with homegrown garden vegetables, jams, jellies and southern pecans.

Rather than discarding stuff that needed discarding, behind the garage was a shed. Attached to the shed was another shed, and onto the shed that was behind the shed, was an addition to the shed shed, all filled with discardable stuff. A second floor above the shed of all sheds, housed more discardables.

After his funeral in 1999, it was my duty to probe the depths and dark recesses of the sheds. There were lawnmowers of various vintages. Some had wheels, some did not. Some had motors, some did not. Some had neither wheels nor motors. Inspection revealed all mowers had long ago fulfilled their destinies. There was also a similar assortment of BBQ grills in various forms of parts and pieces.

A fairly modern farm tractor with its usual implements filled most of the first shed. Parked alongside was a riding lawn mower with all its attachments. Standing silent vigil, long ago forgotten, a vintage David Bradley garden plow from Sears with all its attachments.

Hanging from rusty nails were antique farm implements probably coming from “the old home place,” various rusty tools, broken garden hoes, shovels and rakes and an array of leaky hoses and lawn sprinklers that no longer sprinkled lawns. I remember one day years ago, he drove home in his pickup truck loaded with two dozen 6-foot fluorescent light fixtures, rescued from an ancient downtown commercial building undergoing remodeling. “What are you going to do with those light fixtures?” Silly me asked. “Somebody might need them,” he answered. “They were going to throw them away.”

Cleaning out the second floor over the sheds of all sheds after his death, there they were, two dozen old and rusty fluorescent ceiling light fixtures, some with tubes, most with not, still waiting for “someone who needed them.” The second floor of the shed of all sheds was so full of disposable stuff, dusty and dirty, stacked, jammed and piled, that the temptation was great to haul in a dumpster to haul out the disposables.

All this stuff, some useable, some not, some in pieces and parts, all rusty, dusty and dirty, waiting for someone who needed it.

Now, here we are today. Old rusty, dusty AARPers of the modern age.

The years pile up and disappear. We cherish meaningful mementoes, none cast aside or discarded. They find their parking place onto old rusty nails hammered into dry weathered beams holding together a leaking, leaning, wood-frame garage too small for a modern vehicle.

In cleaning out the sheds, I can’t remember what I did with the old nubby whisk broom. But like the nubby, we attach ourselves to a prominent rusty nail in a lean-to leaky wood-frame garage, and defy anyone to throw us away.