No, he agrees, but after twenty years, they can die a natural death.
He gives me a what-did-you-expect kind of grin, shoulders his tools and dutifully heads back into the garage. It takes the better part of an hour but finally the old machine gasps and chokes and coughs itself back to life.
One small crisis is diverted, at least for the time being.
If it goes again, he warns me, just go get a new one. Ain't no point in callin' for service.
Yeah, right, I think to myself with just a touch of temper even though I know he's being reasonable and most likely honest, Easy for you to say.
He trudges to his white repair van, climbs in and drives off and the dogs, who never react well to the presence of a stranger, finally relax and settle down. The temptation to crawl back into the nest I've made in the loveseat is strong - the idea of sleeping another day away with the little dachshund curled next to me is almost irresistible - but instead, I shower and dress, change kitty litter, wash breakfast dishes, try to do a little writing. I would much rather continue to hide/ brood/ worry/deny, but I've done that for a full week and accomplished precious little. I don't like the direction my thinking has taken lately - it's crept into the shadows of self-doubt and worse, self-pity - dragging me along with very little resistance and flashing a slideshow of unattractive images. Homelessness, insurmountable debt, elderly-ness and ill health. Despair, resentment,
lack of faith and estrangement.
Truth to tell, I think I know how the dryer feels.
The next day a musician friend arrives with her trusty shop vac in tow and as instructed by the Sears repairman, we commence to clean out the astonishing collection of lint behind the old dryer. It's musty and moldy and as my mother liked to say, Hot as Hades but we are driven and we persist. The dogs dance around in the yard, thrilled at this extra time outside and curious as to what all the commotion is about. When we're done, we sit on the barely shaded back deck, drinking cold Orange Crush and Diet Coke and we begin to talk, really talk, about families, being fired, fear, depression, detachment and everything in between. Program talk mostly, mutually supportive and painfully honest. Her background is AA, mine is Al-Anon but we share the same kind of damaged childhood, we battle many of the same character flaws and are afraid of the same kinds of things. It's like finding a well worn and dog eared old book with stories you already know, stories that might even be autobiographical - not all are pretty or have happy endings - but you read and re-read and re-read again, inspired by finding a kindred spirit, calmed by sharing with and listening to someone who has the same pain, encouraged by knowing you're not as alone as you feel.
It doesn't turn anything around, this long, sweaty conversation on the back deck, but it does lighten our burdens a little and rattle the teeth of a few of our common demons.
I'm not so sure about the dryer. In appliance years it's probably on life support and may give up and give in at any moment, but it is a Kenmore, built for durability and long life, reliable as rain and just a day or two away from indestructible.
I'd like to think there's a little Kenmore in all of us.
He trudges to his white repair van, climbs in and drives off and the dogs, who never react well to the presence of a stranger, finally relax and settle down. The temptation to crawl back into the nest I've made in the loveseat is strong - the idea of sleeping another day away with the little dachshund curled next to me is almost irresistible - but instead, I shower and dress, change kitty litter, wash breakfast dishes, try to do a little writing. I would much rather continue to hide/ brood/ worry/deny, but I've done that for a full week and accomplished precious little. I don't like the direction my thinking has taken lately - it's crept into the shadows of self-doubt and worse, self-pity - dragging me along with very little resistance and flashing a slideshow of unattractive images. Homelessness, insurmountable debt, elderly-ness and ill health. Despair, resentment,
lack of faith and estrangement.
Truth to tell, I think I know how the dryer feels.
The next day a musician friend arrives with her trusty shop vac in tow and as instructed by the Sears repairman, we commence to clean out the astonishing collection of lint behind the old dryer. It's musty and moldy and as my mother liked to say, Hot as Hades but we are driven and we persist. The dogs dance around in the yard, thrilled at this extra time outside and curious as to what all the commotion is about. When we're done, we sit on the barely shaded back deck, drinking cold Orange Crush and Diet Coke and we begin to talk, really talk, about families, being fired, fear, depression, detachment and everything in between. Program talk mostly, mutually supportive and painfully honest. Her background is AA, mine is Al-Anon but we share the same kind of damaged childhood, we battle many of the same character flaws and are afraid of the same kinds of things. It's like finding a well worn and dog eared old book with stories you already know, stories that might even be autobiographical - not all are pretty or have happy endings - but you read and re-read and re-read again, inspired by finding a kindred spirit, calmed by sharing with and listening to someone who has the same pain, encouraged by knowing you're not as alone as you feel.
It doesn't turn anything around, this long, sweaty conversation on the back deck, but it does lighten our burdens a little and rattle the teeth of a few of our common demons.
I'm not so sure about the dryer. In appliance years it's probably on life support and may give up and give in at any moment, but it is a Kenmore, built for durability and long life, reliable as rain and just a day or two away from indestructible.
I'd like to think there's a little Kenmore in all of us.
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