Trauma and mental anguish kept me from informing the eating world of my recent travails. Even now I may be forced to create this post via accumulated snippets.
The basics; the middle of June my 11-year-old Frigidaire refrigerator died. The food within entered the landfill. Perhaps to be found by archaeologists 10,000 years from now.
Repair or replace? Requiring multiple repairs in the first couple months of ownership I had no faith in this unit or the brand so new was the choice. The Wonderful Web allowed me to seek out reviews of specific refrigerators and to peek at what local outlets offered.
Using the Web I interfaced with the Best Buy Web site and ordered a Westinghouse top-freezer basic budget full-size refrigerator. Ample room within for a single person’s needs. Free delivery but I was surprised at the delay . . . almost 2 damn weeks!!! I could have cancelled the order but what the hell. Maybe some greater power than mortal humans was using this to test me in some unforeseen manner. Yes or no? No proof either way.
Thus began the two-weeks or so of refrigerator-less existence. I have done so in the past when homeless, living in a semi-truck and various other times when living a non-traditional lifestyle. Ever since settling down a bit a refrigerator has been a constant companion. A wonderful device that eases humanity’s quest for a regular convenient food supply. Oh how lucky we are to have these awesome devices!!!
(pause time. can going fridge-less cause PTSD? overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions and unable to continue this post. like Batman, to be continued. baby boomers should understand that TV show reference)
I’m back!!! July 10, 2020. A lovely morning in the shanty. 12-feet behind me my new Whirlpool purrs keeping my vittles either chilled or frozen, depending upon which section of the device they reside.
For the insatiably curious, here is what Shelley looks like:
I do not name my possessions but to ease the writing of this post naming the electromechanical device makes sense. Shelley is the chosen name for this reason; I was enamored with Shelley decades ago when I infested a small-town high school. Arriving for the start of my junior year (11th grade) I was the outsider, the rare new kid in town arriving from a major metropolitan area to a town based upon agriculture and surrounded by miles of fruit trees and row crops.
Immersion into the social structure of school was slow. My senior year arrived and at a pep rally I saw the JV (junior varsity) cheerleaders. Oh my . . . who is that cute blond gal? Her name was Shelley, I learned, and she was part of one of the rich farming families in that area. Shelley was in a social circle I was not a part of and could not enter if I wanted to, for many reasons. My admiration and primal lust had to be sated from afar. Sigh.
Shelley appears to be functioning normally. I placed thermometers in both compartments; freezer and what? Is there a name for the non-frozen area? Is the chilled, non-frozen section a refrigerator or is refrigerator the term for the entire unit? I have heard/read of the term refrigerator-freezer so maybe the proper label for Shelly is refrigerator-freezer but force of habit may have the general public using the word “refrigerator” when referring to the handy device that simplifies our lives in so many ways. Long live Shelly!!!
My Baby Boom generation was split in half. Those who were eligible for the military draft after departing high school and those who were not. Depending upon one’s viewpoint I was a lucky non-drafter; hitting 18-years-old over a year after the end of the draft. A burden was lifted from the shoulders of male Baby Boomers when the draft ended. However, for folks from hardscrabble families with the working-poor mind-set the lack of the draft meant little. My family’s rule was an adult makes his own way in this world. Informed at a young age for many years I knew I had until age 21 to prepare for moving out of the house. Congress passed a law in 1971 lowering the voting age to 18 and the old man ensured I knew that I was to be out of the house at that age.
Oh, shit. Despite the upcoming big event of my fast-approaching 18th birthday and curious if there might be a grace period following that day when my required departure time arrived, high school graduation was one of the happiest days of my life. Some folks look back at their happy fun-filled school years. Not me. School was burdensome and not a source of fulfillment for a guy such as I.
Part-time work during school was now followed by full-time work in agriculture-related activities. Low pay and limited housing offered no long-term career opportunities. The economy was in a downturn and blue-collar non-skilled laborers were mired in a rut. Local training for skills was limited except for the local junior college but with jobs rare and living costs high college was not an option for me. What can a guy do who, in a few months, was facing the trip out the front door of my parent’s house into the adult world?
Pondering the many routes I could follow one seemed to make the most sense. The military was begging for volunteers. Anti-Vietnam anti-draft and anti-military sentiments filled the land. Not with all people but those who were observant during that time know of what I write. I visited the military recruiters in the closest small city to see what they offered. The navy guy seemed most anxious to sign me up and he bombarded me with all the things a fellow needs to know . . . massive overseas parties and good times with hordes of eager young ladies dying to get an American to marry them and take them back to the land of the big PX (a few of you should know what that means) but make sure you never get her pregnant and never marry a foreign gal and all the stuff I needed to know. When I signed on the line and he arrived at the folk’s house to get their signatures (required for a minor to enlist) a date two-weeks away for my trip to boot camp was arranged. The folks were thrilled. An expense was soon to be gone.
Two weeks. I quit my crappy job guarding sun-drying sliced apricots 10 hours each night and proceeded to enjoy my last few days of semi-freedom. If I had wealth freedom was more obtainable. For the poor freedom is mostly the avoidance of want and privation. With nothing to lose I girded my loins, looked through the local telephone book (this was pre-Web days, folks) and made the call. The ringing stopped and I asked to speak with Shelley, please. “Who is this?” I gave my full name and after a lengthy several minute wait while hearing muted voices in the background a soft, sensuous angelic voice entered the phone. “Who are you?” she asked. I mentioned a couple school events I had been involved with and stated I was boot camp bound and that I would enjoy taking her out for dinner or whatever what was most fun for her. “Wait a minute,” that sensuous voice of the so very pretty Shelley said to me. Again I heard the muted voices and another anxious several minute wait and she graces my presence yet again to tell me “I can’t go out with you,” click. End of phone call.
A huge advantage of Shelley over the prior Frigidaire unit is the quiet factor. Henceforth the Frigidaire will be known as Fred. Fred was noisy. When the compressor ran it made a low-level hum that was not overtly annoying but when that noise was gone the shanty was a more peaceful place. Fred was most annoying when the compressor stopped and a large annoying clunk occurred that made a fellow think the compressor or the motor operating it was going to break loose and roll across the floor. Shelley is akin to Shelley; she purrs in a sensuous way with no audio annoyances. Progress!!!
The refusal was no surprise. I had run-ins with her brother in the past. He was part of the high school jock crowd. He got his letter jacket for football and was active in various clubs and being a rich kid had a muscle car to drive while I usually walked or hitch-hiked. One time he confronted me with three football buddies backing him and dared me to a fight. I flattered him and let him know I was no fool and that he was tougher than me and that seemed to boost his little ego and those words made him come across as a big tough guy with his pals so fist fight averted.
Then the dumb shit saw me hitch-hiking on the outskirts of town headed for a friend’s house a few miles away out in the country and he swerved across the road going around 60-mph, aimed at me on the shoulder and who knows; if I hadn’t jumped to the side maybe he would have missed me but maybe that jump saved me. Still, the act was stupid and mean and very dangerous. Shelley’s brother was now officially on my shit-list.
A few months go by and after school I am in the front yard talking with Mom as the farm tractor across the street is pulling the big mower to trim the 2-acre church back lot. Well looky there, my socioeconomic superior who wanted to fight and who drives like a madman putting me in danger and now . . . is right there driving a slow tractor and . . . now he sees me, standing next to a female that is older then me and likely my Mom and what does dumb-shit do? He stops the tractor and flips me off with two upraised middle fingers. If I had been alone I may have ignored it. Maybe. But I wasn’t alone. Mom saw the fool and had a quizzical look on her face. I very seldom shared my private affairs with my folks. Best not to. I firmly told Mom to go inside “NOW!!!” and she obeyed. Mom was from an era where females obeyed the male, especially during times such as this and my tonal inflection had her headed for the house.
Loins girded and the breastplate of pissed-off American warrior firmly attached I stomped across the street onto that lot and pulled that SOB off his tractor and the fight was on. The idiot got a couple punches in and used the grabbed garbage can lid to give me a couple solid whacks in the face that only made me madder and in a few minutes I was pummeling the fiend crouched upon the ground with its battered face pressed against the dirt and arms covering its long-hair-covered head screaming “Get this crazy guy away from me!!!!” over and over and over. My left hand was wrapped around that shoulder-length hair (normal for that era) as I pounded his face into the dirt and my right fist pounded upon his neck. Suddenly, something grabbed my arm!!! Flinging my arm backwards with all my body strength behind it I saw something in my side vision stumble backwards and fall upon the ground. Busy at the moment I returned my attention to the screaming mass below me. A few more punches landed before I felt two arms grab my waist and pull me backwards with great force. Peddling backwards to stay upright a large chunk of my opponent’s hair was in my fist as the screams turned to sobs.
The arms released me and I heard “Boy, I think you whipped him.” Turning, there was Dad. He went to the defeated enemy who had risen with obvious relief that a savior had come but he was grimacing in pain and distress. Dad ordered us both to shake hands and never fight again. Dad was old-school, raised during the Great Depression, a different era even back then and more so today in the 2020s. Screw that. Dad did not know how pissed I was and why. I never told him and he never asked why the fight started though Mom did mention the flipping off and they likely thought that was the only reason for that brawl. When told to shake hands I made a movement forward and raised my hands saying “I want to hit him some more!!!” Poor bastard nearly fell down in fear. He was a thoroughly defeated fellow. So I turned and walked home and placed the ice upon the growing lumps jutting an inch from my face where the garbage can lid had impacted.
That was around April of my senior year and he never messed with me again. We just ignored each other. I did not hear rumors flying around the school so I guess we both kept quiet about the event. The cops did show up an hour after the fight but the old man, an ex-cop and now a federal fire fighter “talked shop” with the cop and they ended up laughing and joking around and the cop left with no report written and that ended that. Until. Until . . . Until, with absolutely nothing to lose and boot camp and travels to who knew where awaited in a week and a few days so what the fuck . . .
I call my enemy’s stunningly cute sister and ask for a date.
“I can’t go out with you,”she said abruptly.
And life goes on but Shelley is with me now. Yes, not that Shelley but my present Shelley who after this blog entry will never be Shelley again will hopefully serve me well and keep my food fresh and wholesome.
***** UPDATE *****
November 30, 2020 and the weather outside is the coldest of the year. The wind caressing flesh makes it feel colder. No snow, yet. Not an area receiving massive snow amounts as occurs farther north. Ice is the scary thing. Drizzle or rain that hits the cold ground and freezes. Near impossible to drive or walk upon. Too much of it brings down tree limbs and power lines.
But, that means nothing. Shelley the refrigerator-freezes is still operating and the thermometers in each section show me the maximum and minimum temperatures reached and though the range seems to be a bit wider than I think appropriate the food remains in the safe zone and I will wait until it is closer to the end of the warranty period to inform the manufacturer of my concern.
Hoping greatly that the damn thing simply operates continuously with no problems until some future date when I no longer need a refrigerator; the day I die. Maybe I should place a note in the will that I be buried in the damn thing. Oh. Wait. Going the cremation route and dump the ashes in some out-of-the way convenient place.
I Adore Food 