I’ve been thinking a lot about loss lately. Maybe it’s because fall is turning to winter; maybe it’s because I’m getting older; but most likely it’s because my favorite toaster just shuffled off it’s electric coil.
Really.
You have to understand that this was no ordinary toaster. This was an extra-ordinary toaster, a gifted-and-talented toaster, a toaster to be reckoned with. If it had been a pop star it would have been Elvis Presley; the King of Toasters.
This particular toaster’s amazing talent was the ability to make toast and poach an egg. Let’s see your ordinary, store-brand Chrome-and-Bakelite model pull off that little trick. With just a couple of ounces of water and a whipped egg, my brave little toaster could turn out an egg-and-muffin sandwich the equal of any you’d find at the most upscale fast food joint.
It died suddenly. If there were symptoms of its impending doom, I never saw them. One day it was poaching and toasting like a champ, the next it was gone. When I pressed the poach button, the water never boiled and I was stuck dribbling raw egg over my muffin — a breakfast soup sandwich.
Unable to find a replacement, I opted for a more traditional model, but it’s just not the same. If you’ve ever lost a favorite machine you know what I’m talking about.
Not that I get nostalgic about every device I own. When I was a college freshman I possessed a digital clock with an impish sense of humor. Periodically, it advanced itself a few minutes or a few hours. The punchline (or so the clock thought) was when the alarm went off hours earlier than necessary. For the clock, this was the height of hilarity. It stopped laughing when I used a convenient second-story dorm window to test its airworthiness. The replacement I purchased has no sense of humor and (perhaps inspired by the fate of its predecessor) has worked flawlessly for nearly thirty years.
I feel a little guilty about what I did to the clock, but I haven’t missed it for a moment. The car my wife owned when we married inspired a similar feeling. It was an old Audi which resembled a functioning car in all important respects except in terms of actually functioning as a car. It was stylish, but useless — sort of like a pinstriped hospital gown.
We had no need of a theft prevention system because starting the car was a chore which involved inserting the key just the right distance and turning it just the right amount all while muttering just the right curse words. It wasn’t uncommon for us to spend twenty or thirty happy minutes in the driveway mumbling, swearing and praying.
The week we were married — and this is a true story — our five-year-old nephew was in the car with us when we tried to start it. He exercised his newly learned skill at counting to keep track of my unsuccessful attempts to fire up the engine. He exhausted every number he knew before the motor turned over.
As impoverished newlyweds we hung onto the car on the assumption that any car which ran would be cheaper than the payment on a new vehicle. Like most newlyweds we were naive. The car cured us of that when it developed some form of automotive leprosy and began shedding parts the way white cats shed fur on dark furniture. We were kept from a Bonnie-and-Clyde-style life of crime by the knowledge that if we actually committed a robbery and tried to get away the authorities could find us by following the trail of car parts.
We dutifully collected the parts and took them to a mechanic who frowned, kept the car for several days, and put the parts more-or-less back where they belonged. Each month we paid several hundred dollars for the privilege of letting our car hang-out in the shop.
When the transmission went out and the car could no longer move fast enough to shift the speedometer needle off the left edge of the gauge, we decided we’d had enough. We were paying and still only had possession of the car half the time. Sure a new car came with payments, but at least we’d have reliable transportation.
Fortunately (again this is absolutely true) we lived at the top of a hill. We selected the dealership most directly below us and “drove” to see what we could do about buying a new car. We offered the Audi in trade and the appraiser took it for a one-block ride which lasted forty-five minutes. After he got back, he spent a few minutes in consultation with our salesman who came in to the office and said, “Well, he noticed the transmission has a problem.”
Perhaps because we looked desperate and slightly crazed from months of torture at the hands … ummmm … wheels … of our car, the dealership cut us a generous deal and we went home with a brand new Ford Escort and a five year binding financial commitment; our first joint loan. We were terrified, but at least we had reliable transportation.
It brought our eldest son home from the hospital (in a hastily purchased second car seat because the first one was too big for the back seat); it carried us to job interviews, family trips, celebrations, and the innumerable doctors visits familiar to young parents. By the time we we’d finished with it, we had replaced or repaired everything that could be replaced or repaired. It might as well have been a family member. In the end, I sold it to a high school student for a token amount, in hopes it would take care of him as well as it had taken care of us. I miss that car sometimes; just like my toaster it was a stand-out machine and I doubt I’ll ever again find its equal.
