Most times I just sit here and watch the birds. It’s mostly chickens, right here in the coop, but over there behind the willow, I’ve seen storks and there’s robins that walk around. Plenty robins. Time passes slowly here, you could almost hear it. Yes, it reminds you of that novel, Catch-22, but it’s not like that. I am perfectly fine, just like this. I don’t feel tortured at all—I enjoy sitting here, watching the chickens trample the earth. I am not a tortured type of person.
Last year, around winter, I bought a brand-new vacuum. It’s a fancy one. Not a cordless one, I don’t think that’s for me. I’m the type of person that forgets to charge things. I would do a quick hoover, and leave it unplugged in the corner by the Tiffany table or maybe leaning against the side of the stairs in the hallway on my way out to see Marianne or catch the noon bus to see the Margrite show or some other thing central. The very next day, I can just imagine myself wanting to give the house a full one-over, but finding the vacuum completely discharged, unjuiced. Not ideal.
So now I have a very contemporary corded vacuum cleaner. The cord was actually one of its selling points, and it is what finalised the sale. See, I thought I needed a cordless, as I live pretty spaciously. My dear friend Marianne had advised me so—“light and cordless”—after she saw the cleaner haul the old Miele up and down multiple flights of stairs, repeatedly plugging it in and out, in and out. She was old and it was a heavy load for her fragile back. I’m sure it must’ve been painful. I feel bad saying this, but when she passed away and I tried dragging the thing up myself, I gave up after four or five steps and decided to get a vacuum for each floor.
The salesman, however, was so kind as to let me try lift up a new model vacuum. “As light as a cushion,” he said, I remember. He said it a few times, waiting for me to acknowledge it. “As light as a cushion,” he grinned again. “Light as a cushion,” I reluctantly repeated, “light as a cushion.” To be frank with you, it was astonishingly light. Maybe not quite like a cushion—it’s not the kind of comparison I would make—but light enough to convince me that one vacuum might suffice. “And the cord on this one, it’s extra long.” “Nice,” I said.
On my return home, however, I was forced to face the real issue. The crux of it, if you will. I opened my front door and saw the old dust machine standing lonely in the hallway. I felt remorseful. Could I replace it? I’m sure to someone like yourself this sounds odd, silly even, but I grow attached to the things around me. To someone like me, the environment matters. You see, I was never a hotel person, a renter, or even a seasonal dresser. I am, and always was, an owner. I own things and in turn they own me. It’s the curation that forms me into me. Yes-yes, I know how it may sound, Marianne has said it plenty, but I can’t help it. It’s just who I am…
I rolled up the cable into the vacuum and pulled it into my garden. I went around the corner, over the cobble and through the rough bit. It kept getting stuck in the grass and I had to heave it up. It was quite the ordeal. Finally, I placed it here, right here where we are now. I sat down on this same stool and with one hand on my vacuum, took in the sight of the coop.
I come back routinely and sit by my Miele. Sometimes I count the birds. The chickens, I count them. I considered counting the robins, but they come and go as they please. The chickens however, I know how many I have, and I like to remind myself that I have eight and not seven. God forbid one died.