We Are Not a Family of Finery or Filligree

Dashing off to town
In a 4-wheel-drive Tahoe
Making road walkers frown
Laughing ho ho ho
Time is running out
To grab last-minute gifts
For that crazy lout
In Good Feet Store lifts

Oh, Dollar Store, Save a Lot,
Big Lots, Dollar Tree,
Found it in 
The local Family Center
A push-broom glory be! Oh...
Dollar Store, Save a Lot,
Big Lots, Dollar Tree
Garage puddle must be swept
Before Val breaks a knee!

Yes. The Pony and I made about ten stops today, the first of which was at The Family Center to find a push-broom. We used to have one hanging in the garage. The Pony used it to shove out the puddle of meltwater that drains from T-Hoes tires and flanks after an outing in the snow. Overnight, that puddle has a tendency to freeze. And we don't have a flock of geese to fly away with it, like the lake in that story Idgie Threadgoode told Old Smokey Lonesome right before giving him a snort of Old Joe from a pint in the pocket of her apron in Fried Green Tomatoes.

That Family Center store is just about abandoned. Nobody is ever at the register. I'm surprised we don't see tumbleweeds somersaulting down the aisles. We turned right just inside the door, on The Pony's advice, and went almost to the end of the building. No push brooms. The Pony swore he saw some last week. There was nobody to ask. We perused the 37 garden varieties of rakes, and looked at long and short axe handles. No push brooms. On the way out, a Grizzly Adams man in a green duck vest greeted us. He was like the Brawny Paper Towel guy gone to seed. "How ya doin'?"

"Great. Do you have any push brooms?" He looked at me like I was as simple as Pangle in Cold Mountain.

"Um. Yes. They're right there, where you came from." Brawny Grizzly had to escort us back from whence we came. The fact that he was carrying a large bag of Horse Chow or cedar chips or Sweet Feed over his shoulder did not seem to be an issue. Our city-slicker stupidity did. "See? The edge of one hanging right there?"

"No..."

"There. The blue bristles?"

"Oh! Yes! Thank you." They were on an end cap around the corner from where we stopped looking. The Pony ignored the blue and red, and chose a tasteful black push-broom for Hick at $19.98. Not exactly a $980 pair of Good Feet Store inserts, but an appropriate gift. As I remember, upon being quizzed as to the whereabouts of the old push-broom, which I assumed he had spirited away to the BARn, Hick said, "I thought that was in the garage."

The Pony toted it to the register. It was a long walk. "I thought you said you knew where they were."

"Well, I was kind of right. I took you there, I just didn't see it."

"If it was a snake, and could strike over a really long distance, it would have bit us."

"We were too far away."

"If it was a cobra, it could have spit venom in our eyes."

"I am wearing glasses. Venom would not hurt me."

"Sometimes, can you just go along? I'm creating here."

"No comment."

Thankfully, a cashier crawled from the woodwork. She looked at The Pony. "Is this a present for you?"

Of course he didn't answer. Just snorted and ducked his head. "Actually, it's for his dad, but I figure he's going to be using it more." Another snort. We stashed the push-broom in T-Hoe's rear. Tomorrow we need to sneak it in. The Pony thinks we should stuff it in the artificial Christmas tree box.

"Nobody will look in there until it's time to take down the Christmas tree."

I think he's got a point.

Hick decreed several years ago that I could no longer have my real Scotch Pine Christmas tree from my Grandma's tree farm in the partially-finished basement, and my artificial Christmas tree in the living room. One was enough, old Scrooge declared. So now I only have Artie the artificial. I think that angel on the top is kind of teed off as well, having to hear air whoosh through the ductwork all the live-long day.

She'll probably be even less happy when he puts up the ceiling over our break, and takes away her headroom.