When I was young, my mother owned a monstrous looking vacuum cleaner. This creature had a huge jaundiced strip for an eye, a sinister looking "snout" and a very durable, if singularly unappealing body. It weighed a ton (or thereabouts) and the name "Kirby" was proudly emblazoned on its hulk.

This prehistoric ogre roared with a drone that could be heard for miles, but it did its job. It sucked up hordes of dirt, a curtain or two on occasion and threatened to do the same to my dog, "Punchy," whenever he'd venture into its path. Even so, I admired this harshly metallic beast (Punchy didn't, but that was his problem) as it, with the proper guidance of my Mom, kept our abode clean. It was a very effective, albeit frightening machine. Oh, and by the way, I don't recall my mother ever being injured by her vacuum cleaner.

I moved out of my parent's home well over 24 years ago. In all of that time I've been unable to find a vacuum cleaner capable of producing one degree of the suction power boasted by the (long since deceased) Kirby, let alone one that didn't cause great damage to my body.

During the past many years every vacuum cleaner I've purchased has had the same thing in common: they've all been miserable failures. If I held a peashooter to my lips and sucked in half the amount of wind my lungs could handle, I'd still ingest more dust, dirt and even curtains into my body than any unit I've bought.

I'll openly state that each of the machines have been far more attractive than the evil looking creature that was Kirby, but looks aren't everything. In this case, looks are nothing. Give me an effective, truly ugly, but submissive vacuum cleaner and I'll be a happy person. In fact, I'll be ecstatic!

You are probably saying, "fine, so this writer has had very bad luck with vacuum cleaners, but that doesn't explain the injuries he suffers once a week." Well, my friends, the truth is that the machines I've owned have not only been ineffective, but dangerous beasts as well. Each of them has recognized the low regard I've held them in and have been hell-bent on inflicting great pain on my body. As a result of this, I've named each of the machines "Broomhellda" and the name has been appropriate for all of them.

This is how it always starts out: On a promise filled Sunday afternoon, I gingerly approach my current vacuum cleaner and then pet its dented (as a result of my having kicked it a few times) body. Next, I whisper a few words of encouragement. "I'm sorry I kicked you the last time we tried to bond. I won't do it again. I really won't, but oh dear vacuum cleaner, just suck up a little dirt and I'll love you forever. Please, please!" From deep within the bowels of the machine, I discern a distant and despicable cacophony of laughter.

The first indication that my mission will be a failure is noted when Broomhellda's slew of attachments fall from their cradles and lay scattered across the floor as I carry her into the living room. Being a forgiving type, I take a deep breath and say, "that's okay, dear. I must not have replaced your helpers in their proper places. Come on, we'll get through this."

I then plug the cord into a nearby outlet and commence the time weary job of trying to remove whatever dust and other debris is residing on my carpet. Within but a moment or two, Broomhellda's "tail" wraps itself around my ankle and trips me. As my body is being propelled toward the sharp corner of a table, I glance at the vacuum cleaner and note that it is snarling complete with a truly repugnant sneer. "Kick me, will you Dobson. That one was for my sisters and brothers who came before me. Ha, ha, ha_"

After having bandaged the wound on my leg, I once again beseech the vacuum cleaner to be gentle with me. "Okay, I know that was an accident and was probably my fault, but I'm still recovering from last week's traumas. Please don't trip me again, you miserable_um..my friend!" All I can hear is the low rumbling of my obnoxious opponent who, by the way, is very clean as she hasn't bothered to suck in even an iota of dirt.

Over the next hour or so, Broomhellda trips me at least three more times, allows her body to be captured by every piece of furniture in my possession and has not managed to pick up anything more substantial than a miniscule puff of cat hair. In the process, I've severely cracked my knees on numerous walls when turning to see what in heaven's name has been keeping Broomhellda's attention from her appointed work. All the while, I can hear her disgusting voice grunting out the name "Kirby, Kirby, Kirby" in a manner very similar to Linda Blair's character in "The Exorcist." i

This same scenario has been going on for the past 24 years and I am exhausted from the trials and tribulations of dealing with totally ineffective vacuum cleaners. In addition, my funds are almost depleted as a result of having to pour all available money into bandages, salves and other necessary items used to provide relief from my numerous aches and pains.

Last Sunday, I finally came up with a solution. I am proud of my Scottish background and accompanying frugality. I have therefore decided to save a fortune on vacuum cleaners and medical supplies. I will remove all of my carpets, consign the current "Kirby never-would be" to a local dump and then purchase a broom. I won't just buy any broom, mind you. I intend on contacting a firm in Scotland and ordering a dignified, personable and all-powerful Scottish broom. Maybe I'll even call the soon to be cherished device "MacKirby."

I would love to hear from you. My readers are very important to me and I answer each and every email. My contact is Gary.

You can find more articles in the archive under Reflections on a Dream