So, I made this thing at the library. It’s a witch’s broom. For Halloween, not intended for every day use.
The instructions were simple: Choose a stick. Grab a handful of grass. Bend it in two and zip tie it to the end of the stick. Add whatever decorations you like.
Two tables were filled with interesting things — flowers, gems, creepy crawlies — all of which awoke my 10-year-old brain and memories of a glorious summer long past when the church down the road held weekly craft classes. Then and now, I buzzed with creative energy, gobbing on all manner of things colourful and shiny as I chatted with a friend.
An hour and a half into this, I stopped, looked at my friend who was pretty much dismantling her creation, and said, “Oh-no!”
“Oh, no?” she said.
“Oh-no. I just remembered. I didn’t drive here. I rode my bike.” Even worse, I had a dental appointment prior to the going home part. So, I was going to be riding a bike, carrying a witch’s broom which I had already decided I’d tie onto the crossbar of my men’s style 10-speed. I would have to untie it to go into the dental office because if someone didn’t steal my bike this time, they’d be sure to steal such a magnificent piece of art.
So, ride over there with the broom. Detach it. Walk into the dentist’s office. Then what? Carry it into the room with the reclining chair?
Clearly, I was going to have to disguise it. In my backpack I found a clear plastic rain poncho.
Witch’s broom into the poncho. Wrapped it up tight and filched three pieces of twine from the supply table. I attached it to my bike precisely, trying to get it tight enough that the knobby part on the end of the stick wouldn’t come loose and work it’s way through the spokes. That would be awful: Me flipping over the handle bars, leg strangled by the broom handle as I jumped a curb because where I live bike paths don’t always have the little ramp parts for when you cross a road.
It would be tight, but I decided I had enough time to save myself a teeny bit of embarrassment. I’d run home, drop off the broom and get to the dentist. Still, I rode very carefully. Much slower than usual, keeping watch on how that stick kept adjusting itself.
What I hadn’t counted on was that cute little sticking-out piece near the top where the giant spider is. When I stopped at a red light, I very nearly impaled myself. Saved from being shish-kabobed only by a thick layer of coat and residue of a certain chip-eating habit.
Slow and careful. No jumping curbs. Watch the broom handle, not the road.
I was on a straight-away, no curbs in sight. No need to stop or leap past the impaling spider-holder. I was climbing a hill when I got the mental picture of myself in a black coat and leggings, my legs on either side of a broom zipping along a path in full view of a major roadway. I couldn’t kid myself that even wrapped up in plastic it did not look like a witch’s broom. It looked fluffier with the plastic — even more like a broom. I sped up. I had to get home before anyone I knew saw me.
Plus, I was still in a rush to get to my appointment. At least, it was noon. Everyone in the neighborhood would be at work. I slipped down the street undetected. Dropped the broom in the garage and set off at a sprint, which is when a neighbour called out and waved. I didn’t notice what he was wearing. All I saw was the huge grin.
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