Ode to an Electrolux model L

Have you ever handed a kid (or anyone born after 1995, really) a rotary phone? Yes, it's fun to watch them figure out how to make a call, but it's also nice to see them marvel at the sheer heft of the receiver. One blow to the head with it could kill a man. Try that with an iPhone.

As we open our latest Amazon packages to retrieve the plastic doodads inside, it's easy to forget that the world used to be full of such sturdy, functional objects, designed to last for decades, if not generations. They worked, dependably and with a minimum of fuss, and if they stopped working, they were worth repairing.

A solid metal canister in a pleasingly tubular shape, evocative of 1950s sci-fi robots and rockets. This shape disappeared along with the L when it was discontinued in 1979, replaced by an ugly, boxy chassis, in my opinion a design catastrophe on par with BMW's decision to shrink the kidney grille in the mid-'90s.

I never owned the above Electrolux canister vacuum cleaner, but I had the privilege of using it for almost a decade of summers. I took its photograph long before I ever imagined I'd be writing this tribute. I took the picture because I wanted to remember it.

It belongs to a summer cottage we used to rent in Maine every summer. Charming but ramshackle, not winterized, of course. When you mounted the wooden stairs, the whole house creaked. Beams of the light peeked through spaces between the rough wooden planks of the wall. We loved it.

It had been in the family of the current owners since a great-grandfather built it himself back in the 1910s. Our landlords were frugal in the typical Yankee manner, and the house looked as if nobody had spent a penny on it since the Clinton administration. The bathrooms were cramped and swampy, and the house was decorated in classic cabin decor: a typewritten phone list from 1989, shelves bulging with water-damaged Reader's Digest condensed books, a non-functional 1990s TV on a pressboard cart also holding a DVD player with a "Jurassic Park" disc halfway inserted.

I don't mind rustic, but the thrift-store clutter sometimes got to me. One day I went on a bit of a cleaning jihad. I put the books in some boxes and hid them in the attic, replacing them with my own. I managed to shove the TV into a tiny downstairs broom closet. I swept the floors.

The small common area had a faded, discolored Ikea area rug. It really tied the room together, as Jeff Lebowski used to say. I had the urge to vacuum, and that's when I stumbled upon it. An ancient vacuum cleaner, crammed between some old window screens and a polyester comforter in a closet in the downstairs bedroom.

I almost didn't bother getting it out. At home I had become a Dyson snob, convinced by the marketing that the Dyson represented a paradigm shift in carpet-cleaning. This despite the evidence of my hands, how flimsy and plasticky the Dyson felt as I pushed it, like a children's toy. It was supposed to be extra adept at siphoning up animal hair, although I wasn't sure I could see a difference. But I wanted to believe.

I had little faith in the domestic relic before me. But when I plugged it in and turned it on, I noticed the excellent suction immediately. I could feel the vibrations traveling up the fabric hose and into the nicely worn handle I gripped. The floor attachment seemed to clamp to the rug like a magnet, and it provided just enough resistance as I pushed it to convey a reassuring sense of effectiveness. Add to that the satisfying crackle of crumbs and sand and who knows what debris violently raptured up to their eternal rest inside the canister.

Vacuuming soon became one of my favorite rituals. It cleared my head. It was great first thing in the morning, just before afternoon cocktails, or late night after dinner before a solitary cigarette on the porch. People coming over were a reason to vacuum, as was a rare afternoon of solitude.

As you can see, it's an Electrolux model L, in white with avocado green accents. The L was the "economy" version of the G, but by today's standard's the build quality is deluxe. A solid metal canister in a pleasingly tubular shape, evocative of 1950s sci-fi robots and rockets. This shape disappeared along with the L when it was discontinued in 1979, replaced by an ugly, boxy chassis, in my opinion a design catastrophe on par with BMW's decision to shrink the kidney grille in the mid-'90s.

There is ingenious cord storage on the back, a metal halo you wrap the cord around. The G has an automatic cord-winder, but I prefer doing it myself anyway.

I'm far from the only one to be charmed by this appliance, as I discovered during a bracing foray into the Electrolux enthusiast community. I admit a I felt a twinge of superiority when I read the first 3,000-word post on power nozzle pigtail connectors, but now I get it. These machines inspire an affection very few of today's mass-produced goods can.

In fact, I'm thinking of moving on from the Miele C3 we currently own. I've got my eye on the perfect upgrade.