Friday, October 10, 2003

Requiem for a Dishwasher

imageWe are in the middle of a kitchen remodel. Well, maybe not the middle, maybe we’re at the beginning, as demolition has only just begun. Or maybe we’re at the end, because the planning is the longest part.

But all that aside, some fellows came to our house on Monday and they tore our kitchen out. And what didn’t get torn out on Monday, got torn out on Tuesday. The windows came out. And then the walls came down, well, plaster anyway. We have one of those great old houses that still has plaster & lath in many spots. I’m not sure if it makes more of a mess than demolishing drywall or not.

As our house has a rather open floorplan (and even more open when we’re done), it was not a matter of just closing the doors and tearing it up. No, there are walls of plastic. Huge spans of visquine that heave and bellow as any breeze sucks air out of the sequestered kitchen.

Oh sure, everyone’s making fun of me. I’m rather upset by the whole thing.

I’m most upset for the poor dishwasher. It was a wonderful and awful dishwasher. A Kitchen Aid, at least 22 years old. In its final run of dishes it whirred and groaned and popped so loudly, the Man and I had to yell just to carry on a normal conversation. But it worked. Sure, the door wouldn’t stay open, or closed. Sure, it didn’t really wash dishes so much as wet them and heat them and pelt them with noise. Sure all the little prongs and separators had rusted off and left little rusty spots on the dishes. But it was ours. And I get all gooey-affectionate just knowing that so many other people would have tossed it out years ago, but we made it work and kept it until what must surely be the end of its useful life. So, now it sits down in the carport, waiting for someone to drag it into the dumpster and send it off to the landfill or scrap-yard.

I think it reminds me of the Hans Christian Andersen story, The Fir Tree. The story is about a discontented little tree wanted nothing more than everything else that he didn’t have, but the way it’s told from the point-of-view of the tree has always just ... well, saddened me. The poor thing, it only wanted to fulfill its role in world, but it never knew how. Or wasn’t given the chance ...

So, here I am, crying because this stupid dishwasher that really doesn’t work, wastes water and electricity, I’m crying because it is going away.

But just as a point of reference, I used to cry when my mother would tear up old sheets to use as rags. Dunno. I just have this soft spot.

As some sort of appeasement to me, the butcherblock that was the top of the dishwasher is going to be saved. Our cabinet-maker is going to take it off and sand it down, oil it and give it back to us to use. The only thing that we’re keeping from the old kitchen. Like some weird mounted head trophy from a kill.

Well, I guess it could be nice. Or maybe I’ll just break down sobbing when they give it to us. I can just see it, Cybele walking around the house, clutching the huge butcherblock to her chest, petting it and cooing ...

POSTED BY Cybele AT 4:31 pm    

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During November it's all about me writing a novel. Sometimes it's about whalewatching. You know, and then there's other stuff.