Midnight Mutterings | Revolting appliances

||| MIDNIGHT MUTTERINGS by JACKIE BATES |||

Although there were no obvious signs of a revolution in process, i.e. no rallies with placards sporting a giant X over a depiction of my face, no whispers when I entered a room unexpectedly, no dismissive shrugs when I changed my bedding and stuffed the sheets into the washer or heated a bowl of beans and rice in the microwave, no warning rattle when I pressed the switch on the the electric kettle. There may have been a cooler breath of air than you would have expected in the kitchen. Maybe a slight shudder when I touched the dials of the toaster oven I had been so pleased with.

Possibly, the appliances were a little ashamed to be in my house. Most of them weren’t absolutely new when they came to live with me. I am known in my family to be careful with a dollar, and I have, for years, been given to buying used appliances, which, until lately, served me well and saved me a lot of money. I suppose it could just be parsimony coming home to roost. Still, it seems just a bit too collective to be entirely random.

First it was the gas stove. It came with the Bellingham house and I loved to use it it when I visited the cats who live with my son there. A gas flame is so easy to cook with, not having to wait for the unit to heat to the correct temperature. And more important to cool down immediately when a slow simmer is the next step for cooking the fresh artichokes. Just the turn of the knob, a little click that sparks to light the flame and you’re ready to go. Only suddenly the clicking didn’t stop when the flame jumped up and we had to unplug the stove, which meant the oven no longer worked and it was back to the old days of lighting the stovetop burners with a match like in my New York City apartments of long ago.

Then it was the washer in the same house which refused to drain and spin, no matter how many times I turned the dial to start the process. Now there was the ineffective hand wringing and putting the soggy clothes in the dryer for over an expensive hour, only to take them out still damp and limp to drape on the chair backs to finish drying. The washer sat across the kitchen from the stove, and I thought I sensed them share a tiny nod of collaboration behind my paranoid back.

Meanwhile, back on Orcas, my lovely multifunction toaster oven, which I had bought new not so long ago, (but long enough for the warranty to have expired) chimed in. One of the four control knobs stiffened and refused to turn past ‘toast,’ meaning that bake and broil were only memories, and I had to empty my electric oven of the pots and pans stored there in shame years ago. As if that wasn’t enough of electronics vs. Jackie, the washer, inconveniently located the the basement, also refused to drain, copying it’s Bellingham cousin. OK, so it was old, but still I couldn’t help taking it personally. Perhaps I had hurt its feelings by taking a big load of laundry to Bellingham on my infrequent visits, where the laundry machines are in the kitchen and electricity is a lot less expensive. (Sorry OPALCO, it’s sadly true.)

When I returned to Bellingham a few weeks later for eye appointments and to remind Rose that she was, indeed, my cat, the appliances were still on strike. Bellingham is rightly trying to phase out the use of fossil fuels, and replacing the gas stove with electric would require an upgrade to a 120/240 outlet. While in young adulthood, I did a bit of wiring, even adding circuits to a main box, I’ve never put in a new 240 circuit and am too old to learn. Given that electricians are as scarce as hen’s teeth and just as expensive, and my son grew up innocent of the world of home repairs—we moved a lot— the stove remained in the status quo of matches. My son and I remembered the first rule of electronic repair at about the same time. (Unplug the damn thing and let it rest until it stops pouting. Then plug it back in to see if it is feeling better.) Well the stove had been unplugged for several weeks, which apparently gave it enough thinking time to mend its slothful ways. There was the comforting click, followed by the eager flame with no further clicks. Fixed. Hooray!

Then the washer got the same vacation while we went south for the day for yet another specialist appointment, leaving the cats in charge. On return the washer had healed and remembered how to drain and spin as soon as we plugged it in.

I suppose it was too much to hope that the Orcas washer just needed a rest away from electrons from the wall, but I tried it anyway. AND THAT WORKED TOO! Only the toaster oven is holding out. The knob still won’t turn past Toast to Bake or Broil, and it won’t come off so I can clean it. Seems to be a mechanical rather than electronic problem. Or maybe it’s just too new for old tricks.

Maybe I need to drag Marie Kondo into the picture. Even though she failed to teach me how to get organized, she did remind me about gratitude. Kondo begins sorting every overwhelming mess with a little ritual of thanking each messy house for its gift of shelter, of warmth and refuge. And she thanks each article of clothing for its service even as it goes into the discard pile. I’ve just taken my appliances for granted, without so much as a please or thank you. And my car too. Sure I pat it once in a while, but curse it more often. Maybe even the inanimate among us need a kind word, a friendly exchange of electrons or whatever it is that transfers with touch, maybe even with thought.

Years ago I trained in Therapeutic Touch here on Orcas. I hadn’t chosen to go. It was a gift from friends when I was dealing with my own illness and it seemed ungrateful not to accept. So I went. My teachers have both departed to other worlds, but I still recall that I could arrive at class tired, hungry and cold, and maybe a bit resentful. Sometimes even wet from bad weather, but I always left class feeling better, healed in some way, even though I was learning to be the healer, not the recipient. I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. Not until I was writing this, frustrated with washing machines that won’t drain, spin, trying to be a little bit funny in the process. A woman on Orcas whom I admire at lot but rarely see any more, once told me her father said cars run better when they are clean inside. I’m not very woo-woo, more given to science than mysticism. However, it just might be time to think again. Maybe this is a lesson I need to learn. A lesson from appliances that needed a rest, possibly appreciation. Golly.