The Broom of Camp Lady

Part One: The Gods of Combustion

Somewhere in a state park in New York, there was a broom.

Not a particularly good broom. Not one of those sturdy, well-made brooms with thick bristles, a handsome wooden handle and generations of sweeping behind it.

This was a Dollar General broom.

But Broom had dreams. He imagined a simple life. A useful life. Perhaps a nice porch. A little dirt after supper. Pine needles on occasion.

He would sweep. Someone would lean him carefully against a wall. He would feel needed.

Broom had heard stories about expensive brooms. Beautiful brooms. Brooms that lived indoors. Some had matching dustpans.

He tried not to be bitter.

He also knew what could happen to inexpensive brooms. There were stories.

Martha, for example.

Martha had disappeared into a craft room one November and was never the same. They removed her handle.

By Christmas she was a gnome.

Broom tried not to think about Martha.

Then one day, Broom arrived at a campsite. This, he thought, was his big break.

Nature. Fresh air. Dirt. Pine needles everywhere.

I was born for this.

Across the campground was Van Lady. Broom didn't know her name. Nobody had formally introduced them.

She had a little cargo van, a camper, solar equipment, an awning and an alarming amount of organization.

Broom distrusted her immediately.

People that organized could see dirt.

And Van Lady saw everything.

She drank coffee and watched the campground wake up like it was live theater. There were squirrels. Geese. Campers. Generators. Maintenance workers.

And now Camp Lady.

Camp Lady's campsite was different. Things appeared. Things moved. Things disappeared. Things were placed in locations Broom could not understand.

Broom waited patiently for someone to establish a system.

No system emerged.

This concerned him.

The Gods of Combustion

Morning brought Broom's first professional crisis.

Camp Lady needed coffee. This was not unusual. Even Broom understood coffee.

The problem was that Camp Lady appeared to be depending upon fire to make it.

And the fire was not cooperating.

Camp Lady gathered wood. She searched for kindling. She rearranged things. She crouched beside the fire pit.

Nothing.

Across the way, Van Lady sat comfortably with her coffee.

Broom found this irritating.

Van Lady appeared to have multiple ways of producing heat, electricity and probably civilization itself.

Camp Lady had sticks.

The sticks were losing.

Then Camp Lady walked toward the restroom. She returned carrying toilet paper.

Broom observed this development with concern.

He knew enough about camping to know toilet paper had several legitimate uses. He was reasonably certain this was not one of them.

Camp Lady approached the fire pit.

Broom understood.

The Gods of Combustion require an offering.

The toilet paper entered the pit. Camp Lady crouched. Smoke appeared. She encouraged it.

Broom watched.

Van Lady watched.

The entire campground seemed to hold its breath.

Then
fire.

Camp Lady had done it.

Coffee would happen.

Broom felt something unfamiliar.

Respect.

He would never admit it.

The Gods of Combustion had accepted the sacrifice.

Across the way, Van Lady lifted her already-finished coffee.

No toilet paper had been harmed in its production.

Broom chose not to dwell on this.

His assignment was young.

Surely things would become more normal.

They did not.

Then Came John

Later, a man arrived.

Broom did not know his name, so for purposes of his internal records, he designated him:

John.

John stood looking at the campsite. Camp Lady looked at John. John looked at Camp Lady.

Broom stood nearby.

Nobody looked at Broom.

This would become a recurring theme.

John appeared to be helping. Things arrived. Camping supplies. Equipment. Air mattresses.

More than one air mattress.

Broom noted this.

Interesting.

There were still things the campsite seemed to need. A reliable stove, perhaps. Cookware. A backup method for producing coffee that didn't involve restroom inventory.

Some organization.

Possibly.

Broom hesitated even to think it

a broom.

He was right there.

Ready. Qualified. Available.

Nobody asked.

Broom was beginning to understand that his position might be largely ceremonial.

Evening came. The campground settled down. The squirrels went home. The generators quieted. Van Lady disappeared into her camper.

Camp Lady and John disappeared into the tent.

Broom remained outside.

He had not been offered sleeping accommodations.

Apparently, the air mattresses were spoken for.

The campground grew quiet.

Then came movement from the tent.

Broom stared ahead.

More movement.

Broom continued staring ahead.

Then came sounds.

Broom listened.

There are many recognizable sounds in a campground at night. Zippers. Tent fabric. Air mattresses. Coolers opening. People looking for flashlights.

This was not any of those.

Broom froze.

Across the campground, inside her camper, Van Lady heard it too.

There are moments in campground life when two strangers do not need to make eye contact to know they have shared an experience.

This was one of those moments.

Another sound came from the tent.

Then another.

One was particularly enthusiastic.

Broom stared into the darkness.

He had been prepared for dirt. He had been prepared for pine needles. He had even survived the ceremonial burning of toilet paper.

He had not been trained for this.

I was told there would be sweeping.

Continue to Part Two: And Then Nothing Happened