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Saying Good-Bye To An Old Friend

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The Tampa Tribune

Published: October 15, 2008

For 28 years, we have been the closest friends, nurturing each other, being in contact several times daily. I respected her endurance. She was made of strong stuff and suffered my ministrations. Through the years, I always listened for sounds of distress. She was a constant in my life, available, dependable. Like a soul mate, she fed my hungers and slaked my thirsts.

But she became ill and was suffering, so today; I killed her, pulled the plug, put out her lights. With deep sorrow and much regret, I put my ancient refrigerator to sleep.

She was the fridge of my youth, loaded with sterilized bottles full of baby formula and pureed food. For years her doors were lined with rubber nipples inverted into tall white plastic cylinders and smiling, perfect baby-faces on red, green and blue labels that read "beef and carrots," and "cottage cheese with pineapple." She was my companion for 2 a.m. feedings when the rest of the world was asleep. She was shiny white and silver, sparkling at dawn or dusk, and she glowed invitingly for midnight adult snacks.

She grew up and so did the family. Formula in the door gave way to hotdogs, peanut butter and gallons of icy cold milk. Her body became the household art gallery, hung with finger-painted hand prints - drippingly beautiful - and proudly presented self-portraits as well as magnetic alphabet letters carefully positioned on the bottom-freezer door for easy access and enhanced education. She assumed a mailbox identity as the receptacle for postage-free valentines and "I love you Mommy and Daddy" letters.

When she was in her teens, so were my children. Her shelves began to fill with sodas, salsa and cheese dip to go with the 50,000 tons of every conceivable kind of chip-to-dip that was ever sold. The artwork trailed off somewhere around age 10, and began to be replaced by family photos of school outings, friends and holidays. The love notes were replaced by monthly calendar sheets that tracked school exams, hours of part-time jobs and times away from home. She was like an accordion, her shelves bulging one moment with enormous amounts of food, only to be immediately deflated by three ravenous adolescent appetites.

When college hit our home, she felt a little empty at times. Her doors were decorated with syllabi and college holiday schedules. An occasional beer crept inside. Her calendar was dotted with plans for out-of-state visits for parent's weekends, awards and graduations.

Through it all, she pumped out 28 years worth of ice on a continuous basis, only momentarily burping and requiring rare repairs through the years.

Finally, she contracted a fatal illness. Whatever it was, clogged her arteries and made her circulation sluggish. A figurative angioplasty did not help. The coroner came from the appliance repair shop and pronounced her dying. He recommended we pull her plug to ease her suffering and ours. With much regret, we followed his advice.

I emptied her loyal shelves, gave her a ritual cleansing and watched her lights go out. We ordered her replacement, and left her unplugged in the kitchen for several weeks until it arrived. The new one is cleaner, roomier, more plastic and less steel, more energy efficient. It will undoubtedly be bigger and stronger but it cannot possibly be better for longer.

Twenty eight years is a long friendship. The interloper just does not have the history. It will have to earn my respect and it has a hard act to follow.

Judy Kramer can be reached by e-mail at JudyandOz@tampabay.rr.com.

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