APRIL 26, 2020 – Recently, down our alley I encountered our hotshot lawyer-neighbor sweeping furiously his garage floor—and immersing himself in a cloud of dust. I imagined him trying to destroy a hostile witness on cross-ex(amination).
I also imagined my grandfather disapproving the way Mr. Hotshot was handling the broom.
Born in 1895 Grandpa Holman was archetypical of a self-help generation. An academic wiz at UPenn and captain of industry, he was as comfortable wielding a pen and devising strategy as he was handling the nitty-gritty of his moving and storage business. If you found him issuing directives to office staff or on his way to a board meeting, you were just as likely to see him commanding a forklift or showing a newbie how best to pack a moving van.
One summer during college I worked for Grandpa at his New Jersey headquarters. My idea was to make money. Grandpa’s idea was to supplement my liberal arts curriculum with some practical experience in finance and accounting . . . and, as it turned out, sweeping the floor.
On day one he told me I could start by helping the local high school kid-hire clean out a section of the receiving area where a load was due to arrive shortly. “JerseyBoy” had already been hard at work while Grandpa was proudly introducing “dean’s list grandson” to folks in the front office.
When I found my way to the receiving area, JerseyBoy told me to start sweeping. Easy enough. I grabbed a broom and was soon producing a fine cloud of dust.
“Whoa!” shouted JerseyBoy. “Mr. Holman catches you doin’ that and he’s gonna rip you big time!”
“Huh?” I said.
“First thing I learned from Mr. Holman was how not to sweep.” JerseyBoy then imparted the instructions he’d received from Grandpa. “When ya push the broom,” said the kid, “ya don’t stir the pot. No. Just push a wayz, then stop—keep the broom on the floor. That way the dust don’t fly all over.”
“Got it,” I said. JerseyBoy had just schooled “liberal arts major” in one of the many ways said college man could be a major dunce.
Back in Minnesota, meanwhile, my dad had his own approach to sweeping: sweeping compound and high-pressure water. He stored the former in a barrel at the back of the garage. He dispensed the latter from a garden hose-with-nozzle. He’d spread the compound liberally along the back of the garage. Then with a push broom he’d conduct a “clean sweep” to the front, where he’d scoop up dirt and compound and dump them neatly in the wilds beyond the yard. Next came the water treatment. Soon the driveway was immaculate.
Friday, while cleaning out our own garage I discovered a box of sweeping compound. It must’ve come from my parents’ garage about a decade ago after Dad died and Mother moved to assisted-living. I immediately thought of Dad—then Grandpa Holman. Neither was a “hotshot.” Each knew how to get the job done—any job—to perfection, without fanfare.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
