I have two brooms that I use for sweeping the floor in my house.  One of them, I probably bought from Wal-Mart (I know, the shame!), and it was made I know-not-where-but-most-likely-China. The other is from a little company named Broomhilde, made by hand, by a man and woman I look forward to visiting every year in Muskogee at the Oklahoma Renaissance Festival.  

My China-Mart broom is serviceable.  It will get the job done, and it was cheap.  I don't remember buying it at all, since purchasing a boring broom isn't something one writes of in the old journal, is it?  It is not a thing of beauty or sentiment, but just an object that exists to perform a service.  I have no qualms about sending the kids out with it to sweep the front porch or to play witch in the field.

This broom has the generic look of all things made in factories:  round pale cylindrical handle, broken and dirty straws clamped flat by a slightly rusty metal bar.  It is like every other basic cleaning utensil you picture in your head.  I hang it up in the hallway with the other cleaning supplies for which I don't have closet space in this old farmhouse.  I try not to think of who made this broom, because it would make me sad for so many reasons.

My Broomhilde broom is a different animal.  It has a mottled pattern of dark red and lighter yellow wood on the knobby handle.  Instead of blunt straws that don't pick up all the little bits on the floor, it has actual broom-corn for the business end.  Flat, shapely canes are fastened to the handle with brass nails, and the bristles are natural golden-brown with some interesting splashes of a dark red to match the handle.  It is a thing of supreme functional beauty, and I am proud to hang it on the Dining Room wall for all to admire.

Here's the best part:  when I hold it in my hands, I always think of my friends who made it.  Selling corsets, we have made some dear friends that we only see a few times a year.  There is something that bonds people together when they've shared dramatic experiences, and working at a Renaissance Festival must surely count as dramatic.

How lovely is that?  I have a useful household tool that I use, ahem, "every day."  Whenever I use it, I marvel at how nice it looks, how wonderful it feels in my hands, and I think of the folks who made it.  I take special care with this broom, not because I am unwilling to buy another, but because it is special to me.  You know the saying about how you should have nothing in you house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful?  My handmade broom is both.

There are so many things in life that are not useful or beautiful.  I  don't like to think of things as having feelings, but handmade things are ineffably different than mass-produced ones.  For lack of a better term, I feel that they have more "soul" to them.  I want to appreciate having fewer meaningless possessions and focus on having the ones that we really need, that are fearfully and wonderfully made by loving hands.  

I love selling corsets on the internet, and I am so grateful that my husband and I can work from home and  take care of our children.  Sometimes, though, I wonder if we're losing out on making a deeper human connection with our customers?  I would love to think of women all across the world lacing a corset and fondly remembering the people who made it with love and care and skill.  That would make me very happy.

Oh, little Cora.  You are the most delicious little redheaded round-blue-eyed thing.  I can't stop calling you "wee nubbin," or sometimes "nublet." You got those little laugh-lines under your eyes from your Dad, and they are awesome on both of you. 

You are old enough to go to nursery all by yourself now, but have had The World's Longest Cold for what surely has been months.  We've stayed at home together many Sunday mornings.

You are still breastfeeding.  I feel that you are only nursing in the morning, at nap time, and at bed time.  You, however, disagree.  You rarely sit in my lap without groping me suggestively, or thrashing towards my chest while peering up at me and asking, "Uh-Huh?"  (This is either your word for milk, or eat, or feed-me-now, woman!)    I have tried to tell you to ask politely to eat, but you aren't having it.  You will smile at me by squinting your eyes, because you don't want to let go.

You are endlessly curious about whatever is in every bottom drawer in the whole house.  You will open the drawer, rifle and toss its contents all over the floor around you, and then move on to the next one.  Child, you are making your mother consider those latch-things.  You'd probably figure them out as quickly as I could install them. 

You are the only kid in our household who loves the dog unreservedly.  That is a whole story for another day, but suffice to say that our dog, Luna, is terrifyingly affectionate.  She is an eight-month-old Great Pyrenees, which means she is bigger than some ponies.  All the kids are afraid of/annoyed by her attentions, except for you.  Your favorite words are "Puppy-the-puppy!" 

You are a kisser.  Big, wet, sloppy kisses that are usually snotty, too.  (See Worlds Longest Cold, above.)  Unfortunately, you are also a poker, a pincher, and sometimes a biter.  We're working on these things.

You're a lot of work and a lot of fun all rolled up into twenty pounds of intensity.