During the life of this carpet, I’ve bonded with my sweeper. It practically feels that we are joined at the hip. Whenever I get it out and unwind the cord, I imagine the pain on its face – “Oh, geez, I’m so tired, don’t I ever get a vacation?”
“Sorry, Buddy,” I say, patting its handle, “I feel exactly the same.”
If I’d saved all the hair in the sweeper bags over the years, I’d have enough to knit an entire wardrobe (if I knew how to knit). I’d have white and cream shawls and skirts and sweaters and socks.
Part of this is my own fault. I didn’t have to get a long-haired white cat and a long-haired white dog but I really don’t think my choice of pets should be dictated by my carpet.
I took all the carpeting up from my upstairs. The floors were the most beautiful hardwood. No scratches, no scrapes, no spots. Just lovely white oak throughout.
I took the carpet up in the kitchen and it, too, was hardwood. There was a bad place in front of the sink that John had to repair but once it was all stained you couldn’t even tell it had been there. Mom’s bedroom wasn’t carpeted and it was hardwood as well.
So I’m assuming the floors in the living room and dining room are the same. But what kind of shape are they in? That’s the question. The living room and dining room take some of the hardest living. If there are bangs and bruises and bumps, those rooms are probably where they’d be.
So, there’s my dilemma. Should I take up the hated but perfectly good carpeting? And what will I find underneath if I do?
That’s my version of the kind of nerve required to cross a vast chasm on a swinging bridge.
Vicki Williams is a columnist for the Pharos-Tribune. She can be reached through the newspaper at email@example.com.