Despite the title, this is not a piece about ruminating on farewells to human acquaintances, rather it is an homage of sorts to inanimate objects that have played a perceived seminal role in our all but too short lives. This remembrance was triggered by the difficult (for me) decision to part with a refrigerator that had chilled our food and drink for twenty-five years.
We bought our first house in the mid 80s, and by the late 90s, needed a new frig for the kitchen. I purchased an almond color model from Sears since that’s where my generation had learned to shop for appliances. The refrigerator was basic, with a freezer compartment on top. It even had a small icemaker which was a luxury at the time. The fridge then became a garage staple in our second and third houses.
Finally, it started loudly rumbling away with a compressor that ran constantly. I knew the time had come, and surreptitiously began scouting for a replacement. Eventually, I found one that was the same size, and importantly, the same color, which they now call “bisque.” Before the new one was delivered, I spent some difficult quiet time alone with old reliable, reminiscing on all the provisions it had stored and humbly thanking it for its long service.
I had an ink jet printer that lasted eight years. Pretty amazing in this era of planned obsolescence. That printer happily churned out reams of copy related to my college teaching: syllabi, assignment instructions, grammar rules and quizzes. When it started only accessing the photo tray, I knew it was time to move on. I didn’t have endless pictures that I wanted printed. So it was a sad leave taking, and the replacement printer needed ink cartridges twice as expensive.
Our biggest love affair with a movable object may be the car. It is sometimes more a part of our lives than many humans. During my hippie years I had a black Rambler station wagon which I named The Wonder Wagon. It was festooned with day glo decals of mushrooms, flowers and feet. Inside I had Indian print seat covers, and I burned incense on the dash. The guy I sold it to drove it too fast on the interstate and blew the engine. What a cruel demise. Over the years we owned a series of white mini-vans which we named Moby I, II, III, for Moby Dick the great white whale. Each had its own personality and was painful to part with after years of good riding. Our family did not believe in frequent trade ins. When we drove those vehicles, they became true family members, just like our pets. Parting was such sweet sorrow.
Even clothing can have deep emotional resonance. I have a sweatshirt with my college logo that I have preserved for fifty years. It is tattered and faded, but the associated memories while wearing it at my alma mater will not let me consign it to the dust heap. I have even kept worn out running shoes which I retired after an active life traversing the roads of many neighborhoods. I don’t retain jeans that will know longer fit my paunch, but I do have a couple of prized cowboy shirts where I am too big to now button the snaps. And ball caps. That’s a whole nother story.
Whether it’s a refrigerator, a printer, a vehicle, a sweat shirt or some other item, we form deep attachments with our “stuff.” What is the lesson in all this? While we cherish the things that have a beating heart, we also can get a noticeable lip tremble when we have to part with or retire our non sentient friends. These friends indeed made our lives fuller.