Stuck on Skittle Motoring to Mushmouth

As they were rolling mom down to the Operation Room, I was rolling down the road in the direction of Mushmouth Manor. I had not made a formal appointment. I had sent an email to the Admission Direction early in the morning saying I'd be in the area for a drop-in around 1:00.

It was just after 12:00 when I waved so long to mom, plenty of time to get there by one, after all, I was just going from This City to That City, a distance of 12 miles give or take. Of course it was unfamiliar territory to me now. Fifty years ago I knew all these roads well, but you forget a lot in that many decades.

I had the address, Skittle Road just off This City Pike. I googled it the night before and on the Google Map the place sat just where This City Pike intersected with Skittle Road on the That City side. Skittle actually split off This City Pike toward the This City side and ran parallel to the Pike for several miles. Pretty simple route, I thought.

So I'm burning up the pike and off to my right I see the street sign Skittle Road flash by. Whoa, I can travel right up that way to the door of Mushmouth. I turn into the next street and go straight on the guess it will cross Skittle in the not so distant future. I prove right and now I am heading in the direction of That City on Skittle.

The road isn't Hog heaven, but more Pig Alley. There are a few homesteads among the forest and weeds, but they are modest and in need of some paint for the most part, Picker country. It doesn't look like territory you'd find any Mushmouth Manor in, but it is Skittle Road. I go its length until it dead-ends into another road that is a hop and skip from The Pike.

I have seen nothing resembling a Retirement Home. I turn up this side road in a direction away from The Pike, just in case it is tucked back in the scrub somewhere. I go a bit and nothing like I want to see. I come back and go down Skittle in the other direction. Halfway along I see some hikers on some kind of trail. I ask them where Mushmouth Manor might be hiding. They never heard of it.

The one fellow asked, "What's the address?"

"Skittle Road at the Pike," I tell him.

"You want to go straight way you're going," he tells me gesturing that direction with his hand.

"Toward This City?" I ask.

He nods, I thank him and continue on. Maybe it is. I hadn't turned in where Skittle joined missing its sign. I'll go to the end this time, although I still felt sure the Google Map showed it more toward That City than This City.

I came to the Pike and nothing, so I turned around and went back up Skittle again. Maybe I just didn't see it.

I came to the side road and was as much without Mushmouth Manor as before. There was a parking lot across that side road, a lot with no apparent reason to be. I pulled in and parked. I saw the hikers appear and realized the lot was for that hiking trail's travelers to use. I pulled out my seldom used cell phone from the glove compartment and called Mushmouth Manor.

I could hardly hear the person who answered, but I asked, "Where are you?"

"We're right at the split of Skittle Road and This City Pike. Where are you?"

"I'm in a lot where Skittle joins The Pike, but I don't see you."

"We're on the right," she says, "you can't miss us."

I thank her and hang up. Can't miss them, eh? Well, I don't see anything to the right that looks like the place. Across the pike are a store of some kind and some houses up the side road. There is a line of trees along The Pike. I get out of the car and cross the highway. I think maybe this place is hidden by those trees. She did say they were on the right.

I walk pass the line of trees and stand in shock. There is a street running off to my right and its name is Skittle Road. The blasted thing was cut in half by The Pike. I get back to my car and start driving up this new Skittle.

I am driving and driving and time is getting away from me. I hope I am on the correct track now. I see a man walking by the edge of a lawn. I pull over and ask him if he knows Mushmouth Manor. Immediately I realize this guy is -- how am I allowed to put it in these politically correct times -- mentally challenged. But he does seem to have heard of the place and he points straight ahead.

I drive further and there is a junction back to The Pike and to my right upon a hill sits Mushmouth Manor. Sure enough, you can't miss it, as long you're on the right Skittle.

You Can Bank on Waiting

Once upon a time there was a strong and fiercely independent Family who dwelt in the land of the great Baron duPont in the village of Bankingshire. There were several proud families very like them striving there, but one by one they disappeared into the clutches of great and powerful Lords of Grab and Grasp from outside the realm. All these once noble names of Bankingshire disappeared, their legacies but memories. Except for this one family and somehow they resisted and fought and retained their name and history.

But like many a family empires preceding and surely many to come, discontentment with what they had seeped in and they began to overreach, growing careless and casual in their dealings. As a result, weakness was found within their house and soon they too fell to outsiders from a distant land.

And because of this I found myself having another change forced upon me late in life. My bank, The Bank, where I had served for many years, until they unceremoniously cast me overboard a decade ago, had fallen under a shadow that wouldn't pass. Instead it only grew darker, until they had no choice but to abandon ship. I now faced a transition of not only my financial services, but my pension as well. Do not think I did not worry.

Especially when between an earthquake and a hurricane, I lost my job. But what could I do about it except wait things out. (I'm sorry. I just looked at my photograph and two images came to mind and I don't want to mention either. Use your imagination.)

As fickle fate would have it, the Great Conversion fell on the dates Ms Irene choose to make an impression upon our little state. Just on the eve of when the new rulers of my money were about to rip off the bags over their new signs, Irene ripped down our electric wires and our cable services. Now just as I must call and activate my new access cards, because on that Friday my old had become deactivated, I had no phones. Now when I had to switch my on-line banking service, I had no internet and with no internet and no new on-line banking service, I could not see if my accounts safely made the transition and more importantly, would my pension deposit be deposited.

I've been through many conversions in my life. I have seen few (make that none) without a glitch, hiccup, speed bump or worse. It did not help that over the many months of anticipation as this conversion slowly, but inexorably moved toward completion, my peace of mind when The President said he could not guarantee Social Security Checks would be sent and my job seemed shaky. Amidst these my mind wondered would my pension get lost in translation?

Of course, the politicians made moot the Social Security question in their usual cowardly way. They simply kicked that can of worms down the street for some future gutless politicians to contend with. My shaky job soon collapsed over an abyss and fell from sight on the eve of both the great bank conversion and the hurricane. This left only the banking questions to be resolved.

After the winds blew by and the creeks rose and the power returned and the cable connected I opened a new on-line account at my new bank. Not too difficult to create, but not much to look at once I opened it. I have three accounts and all were supposed to make the trip. I see one, I see two, I see...I see...

I see one and I see two is what I see. Where is three? I look around the screen. I scroll up and down. I click on a few links, maybe it is hidden behind one of these. I do not find account number three. This is not a good thing. This is not a comfort. If they lost a whole account, one in which I OWE them money, what will they do with my pension where THEY owe me money?

I will have to wait a few more days to know the latter answer, but for now my concern is my missing number three. I see a link that says "Add an Account". Perhaps I have to add this one. After all, this one was a credit card and they not only converted banks, they switched credit card companies on me. Maybe that is why this one requires more from me here.

I click the "Add an Account" and begin filling out a form asking for account name and number and vital statistics, but I pause. At the end it has a fill-in blank labeled, "Pay this Amount". Hmmm! This isn't adding an account, this is adding a payee for Bill Pay. I don't want to pay any amount right now. In fact, if my pension deposit doesn't show up a few days hence, I won't be able to pay any amount to account number three, even if I do find it. If I don't see my pension deposit in a few days hence, maybe it'd be better if account number three stay lost. I cancel the form and return to my somewhat skimpy home page.

Then I notice near the bottom, "To add an account call 1-800-And-Wait." (That's not the real number. Don't call that number. There is no number 1-800-And-Wait. It is not a number, it is what you are going to do when you reach the real number.)

It lists the times of day you may call. I have to wait for the proper hour and when the clock strikes the time, I dial. A mechanical female voice answers with a greeting, a welcome, followed by, "All our circuits are tied up at the moment. Please call back later." Hoo ha!

High tide in the anxiety pool.

There's that word again, wait. I must wait until later and later I call again, around four in the afternoon.

Our cheery little mechanical greeter is there with another welcome and instructions: If you want this thing, press 1; if that thing, press 2; if another thing, press three and so on and so forth until, "If you haven't pressed anything because you are so overwhelmed by our 87 choices, then press 88 and we will start all over again. Just for your convenience. This time pay attention and press something."

I didn't know what to press, nothing quite fit my situation. There was no press zero for a real, live, possibly-even-breathing individual. So I did the next best thing, I picked a number at random and pressed. Our cheery greeter was back, but with a difference message. "We are experiencing a higher than usual call volume. Please stay on the line and our first available representative will be with you shortly." Meanwhile I get to enjoy the most sleep-inducing music I have ever heard on hold. I mean, I didn't want to be subjected to be-bop or hip-hop or rap or reggae or some kind of death metal play, but I wasn't ready for lullaby-time either.

Fortunately my dozing was interrupted at frequent intervals, about every other minute, by our digital hostess announcing the lines were still tied in knots, but "our first available representative will be with you shortly." Of course, "shortly" is a relative thing and it obviously was no relative of the bank's. After numerous "short-lies", a man answered.

He introduced himself. "Hi, my name is Peggy." And I introduced myself, "Hi, my name is confused." We were going to get along great. I begin to explain my missing number three account when I hear a click and nothing.

"Hello, is anyone out there?" followed by "did this guy HANG UP ON ME!" followed by my wife walking in the room announcing, "The cable is out."

Oh yes indeed, the cable was once again kerput. Along with my lost number three account was lost TV, lost internet and lost phones. I didn't lose everything. I still retained my sense of futility and frustration.

Our cable service didn't return until later that evening, too late now to call back. In the morning I decided to go to the nearest branch, track down my AWOL account face to face, Mano y Mano or Womano y Womano. Why does optimism ever ring in my heart? I drive to the bank, park my car and amble across the lot then do a U-turn back to car, to road, to home, to phone. Why did I not know the bank branch would be full. It just converted and I was probably not the only owner of a stray account or transaction about town.

I call the 800 number and our computer-generated Matron'd answers. Apparently they are firing on all circuits this morning, so she goes right into the laundry list of press-worthy buttons. They have still not added my particular problem to the menu and I still do not know an appropriate one to select. I choose to select a different one than I did the day before.

"We are experiencing a higher than usual call volume. Please stay on the line and our first available representative will be with you shortly."

I am back with the sleepy-time music and the constant notifications to stay tuned for the next available representative. And eventually the next available representative answers.

"Hi, my name is Peggy."

Wait a minute, this is the same available representative I got yesterday after pushing a different button. No wonder all their circuits are tied up, what do they have -- ONE! I mean, I was kidding about his name being Peggy, but now I'm not so sure, maybe this is Peggy. Or maybe I have entered the Twilight Zone or worse, this is Groundhog Day repeating itself over and over.

I don't want to disparage the man or imply he was anything like "Peggy". He was very nice and turned out to be quiet helpful, but in the beginning as confused about my missing account number three as I was. He also was having some computer glitches of his own. He asked me for some info on my on-line banking screen and I fumbled about seeking it, explaining that I was using a new computer and going through a learning curve.

"I'm going through a learning curve myself," he said. "I'm actually a former Wilmington Trust employee learning this new system."

He then asked if I minded going on hold while he asked his supervisor some questions. Ah, sweet dreamland.

After a couple snores my nap was cut short by the guy. "I'd like to ask you to do something," he says.

"Okay."

"Sign out of your on-line banking."

I did so.

"Now log back in again."

"Okay."

 "You should see your credit card account now."

Yes, I see it, I see it, it has come home. I thanked him for solving my problem and now all I needed to wait on was whether my pension check would show up in a couple of days.

A couple of days later I went back to my on-line banking account full of fear and trepidation. The accounts popped up, all three, and yes, my pension deposit was there. I was so happy, so relieved, that I even made a payment to the credit card.

Hot and Hazy: Thoughts on The Sizzle, Ramar Quicksand, Nightmares, Words Writers Write and Bloggers Blab, Great Blue Herons, Man Boobs and other Rambles, The Series

Seems like forever and two weeks before creation since I sat in this cat-scratched chair and keyed out a post. Do the young-in's, who grew up in front of a keyboard, call it keying? Anyone not among we ancients still talk about typing? My kids, who range from 33 to almost 29, once waxed ecstatic over my old typewriter as if it was an exotic fossil, which I suppose it is. Do newspapers even use type anymore? I once worked for a Printing Company and it was all computerized.

Speaking of the dark ages, we had a power outage day before last, right in the heart of the heat. That sizzle that has been cooking the Midwest, and knocked Doc Halliday out of the Phillies game the other day, is burning it's way into the East. It was up around 94, 95 degrees when poof, everything went off to the shout of our collective , "Oh no," followed by the sounds of silence. Then three beats later it popped back on to relieved cheers, only to sputter right back off for the rest of the awful afternoon.

What do you do on a 95 degree afternoon with no air conditioning, no fans, no nothing electronic?

You sit there sagging in sweat, possibly swearing at the power company. Speaking of which, we called Delmarva and reported it. Those things are all automated these days. You are asked questions by some autotron voice and press buttons. He, It, The Voice gave out three pieces of information. "Crews were on their way. We have no idea what caused the outage. Estimated time of restoration is 4:00."

Pretty glib there, fellows, if you don't know what caused it, how do you have any idea when it will be fixed? They used to give these estimates in precise increments. "The estimated time of restoration is 2:43." It's a wonder the exact second wasn't predicted. It never came back when said either. I guess not knowing the cause made them more cautious so they threw out a general time instead of 3:59.

Four o'clock was still more than two hours away. The house was going to stay cooler than outside for a while, a short period, but it'd eventually even out. You weren't better off outside now either. There wasn't even a whisper of a breeze; if fact, it was sucking air in and would suck the breath right out of your lungs if you ventured foolishly forth seeking fresh air.

So we stayed put for about a half hour, when with a rush of roar and air, the power came back on...for the count of one fan blade turn...two fan blade turns...and nothing. Now I called Delmarva again, home of the Smart Meters and the automated reporting system. "Crews are working on the problem: Estimated time of restoration is 4:00"  Okay, 4:00 was their story and they were sticking with it. Meanwhile, we were beginning to stick to the furniture. The house was equalizing somewhere around the temperature of the equator. It was time for action and action isn't easy to muster when you're in the oppressive regime of the heat monster.

"Well, at least we know they're working on it," said The little Woman when they Fans spun.

When the fans sputter out again I figured the problem was bigger than they knew. "I don't think they're going to make it by four," I declared.

So The Little Woman and I hopped into the air conditioned car and fled into the cool of the countryside. We saw the outage was fairly extension because stoplights were out on the crossroads as well. My first thought was for the gallon of chocolate milk I had just bought that morning, would it survive. My second was on the gas gauge. Oh, we had more than a half tank left, but this was certainly not preserving fuel. More about that when we get to the nightmare part of this series, though. We drove about the lovely woods and meadows and cornfields of our county for an hour, then back to the house to see if Delmarva hit their mark.

We came back a different way and the stoplights were working on that road just before out development. When we finally stepped from our car, The Little Woman said, "Maybe the power's back."

"I don't think so. Too quiet. If it were back you'd hear a buzz of compressors."

It wasn't. Four o'clock came and went without it. We had already decided to go out to eat again, hopefully in a chilled-down restaurant. We were just about to leave early for dinner, just past 4:30, when it happened, "Power on, Scotty." We went out to dinner anyway, grateful we would not have to try and sleep under a hot, hazy and humid blanket of summer.

We were not near as grateful as our cats who had been laying in varied position of limp torpor.


TO BE CONTINUED - NEXT: Ramarian Nightmares of Quicksand and Unknown Roads

Bad Times for Dogs and Lovers

Walk lovers, that is; other kinds of lovers may not think it so bad. For dogs and I it isn't all that great. There is no where to walk except down the middle of some roads.

That is pretty limiting, unless you wish to risk being hit from behind by a trash truck.

Anyway you can find some clear roads. The sidewalks, with a few exceptions, are gone. My walk is shoveled. My son did it this time while The little Woman and I were away. My two neighbors to the East have shoveled. We three wise men from the East always do. But we are more the exception than the norm I fear, so as stated, the sidewalks are gone.

So those with dogs, or perhaps small ponies, resort to what they can find. Actually the man isn't walking his pony. It is a Great Dane, a beast with legs so long it just might be able to amble through the snow without getting its belly wet.

At least the dogs have the Bark Park. This is most likely where Mr. Great Dane was heading.

The Bark Park was quite crowded this morning. Where else could they go?

What about the People Parks? Not so inviting and not so crowded.

I drove over to Bellevue, they seemed to be good at clearing off trails. I arrived at 8:40, late for me. The State Parks open at 8:00. I saw a car make a U-turn at the entrance and sure enough when I got there the gates were still closed. The driveway in was plowed. It must be a safety issue.

This is Saturday morning, two days after the storm passed through. It came in on Wednesday and left early Thursday morn. It left a lot of itself behind for us to remember it by.

It was a heavy snow. A needy snow that hugged the bushes and clung to the trees and still hasn't let go. It has dragged everything down with its weight. I was out yesterday trying to rescue our bushes from living burial. Everything is pretty, but precarious and I guess going into the woods has more risks than the State Park was willing to take.

It is odd how these storms seem timed to disrupt trash pickup. That can was put out yesterday morning because that is the schedule. It remained there, still full, all night long. I tried to move it last night, but it has froze into that snow bank and I couldn't break it free. I couldn't even lift off the lid.

The trash man did come today, just as I got home from snapping these pictures and he managed to empty it and free the can. I bet those trashmen just love these snows.

Anyway, back to my plight. Seeing Bellevue closed I figured the other State Parks would not be passable. The paths there had still been somewhat impeded by the last snows. I had walked a couple, but there were definite difficulties involved. I was certain they would be impossible now, except for skiers and some fools on ATVs.

However, I thought of Talley Day County Park. Perhaps their walkways were cleared. Here is where I parked and got out of the car.

The man walking his pony-sized dog was on the entry road to this park. Ah, my hope sprung eternal until my hope sprung its spring.

In fact, my only hope now seems to be spring.

On the right is the opening path back to the playground.

No, I could only walk around the road that encircled the playground and the basketball courts, just a big circle around and back to the parking lot.

Even this was less than great. The road wasn't wide and I had little room to get over anytime a vehicle came by.

It also was slippery. It was below freezing and the surface under foot had a thin film of ice covering. I had to step carefully or I fall down and go boom.

Ah, another marker of a trail head, but no trail. I know it is there somewhere.

I mean everything is very beautiful and all, but it is like the gorgeous Hollywood film queen, we can look but she is unattainable to this mere mortal. I want nothing from this winter ruler except to traipse her lines and admire her, but she has dropped her vail and pushed me away.

"Forget it, silly man," she mocks me.

I pass the Bark Park and there are many wagging tails and happy woofs. They mock me, too. I go a bit and all I can do is gaze across unbroken white at the distant place where my woodland path crossed by the marsh pond.

You see normally one goes up a path by the Bark Park and follows a long and curving trail down a slope along a meadow. You circle around near the next road, then enter a woods. The wood trail winds a bit, then pops open by a soupy pond. There is marsh grass and the croak of bullfrogs to greet you, perhaps a sunbeam breaking between the gap. Then it is back it the woods and more twists and turns until you come back to the playground.

Not today, no soupy pond for you. Come back, two months! Maybe!

Maybe then this trail head will be open.

So now, what else can we not do?

Basketball anyone?

Bring a bright orange round ball so we can find it after each drivel.

Or did you bring your tennis racket for a fast game or two.

First we will need use the rackets to shovel off the court.

Thus I have returned to where I parked my car. See it just ahead? Right there on the corner behind that little pile of snow.

Me thinks it is going to be a long winter. Next Tuesday the groundhog will be called upon to make his proclamation on the remaining days of gloom and bluster. If he sees his shadow and all that, you know? Hey, if this keeps up they won't even find Mr. Groundhog's burrow.

Frankly, my guess is Mr. Groundhog packed up and went to Florida weeks ago.

They only thing they might find is the great shadow of Al Gore going, "Global warming, global warming!" "The cold has driven him mad," they will say," he speaks gibberish."

I drive back to home with not much of a walk under my belt. I fear I will not being getting much of one tomorrow or Monday either. I fear what is under my belt may begin to expand if the show doesn't begin to dissolve.

It isn't dissolving though.

Our main roads are in fair shape, but all the side streets remain a mess. Look down any avenue and it is snow from curb to curb.

Even here in my own neighborhood, despite the plows being through, our main street is treacherous still. I drive down it in second gear, wary of the stop sign half way down the hill.

Right now there is a bright morning sun, but it is just false security. It will fade to gray by lunchtime and the forecast calls for more snow this afternoon and into night.

Hey, Tammy, you say you miss the snow? You are welcome to come take some off our hands.

Below are a few more photos I took this morning.

I'll Never Trust AccuWeather Again

Let me say I will never trust AccuWeather again. As I have noted, probably more often than anyone cares to hear, I like to take a long walk on my off days. Today was an off day, the only one, not counting the weekend, I get this week. I expect I may not get any next week, so I definitely wanted to get my walk, but rain has been predicted for these four days.

It was raining when I fed the birds, took out the trash and brought in the paper. But my little weather predictor on the computer was showing just clouds, so I went to AccuWeather to see what was up. What it said was "mostly cloudy with a few showers in the area." Fine, I then checked the hourly forecast and this showed only cloudy until 1:00 PM, when it indicated rain. Further examination of the report found, "Some showers, mostly in the afternoon."

I went outside around 8:00 and no rain. The sky was lightening and in the East even some blue shown. I decided to go for it. I drove out to my favorite park and there was only a fine mist. I parked and started up the hill and it was clear. I followed the twisting paths until I was deep into the woods and the rain came. This was no drizzle, this was a steady downpour. The trees afforded some protection, but it was heavy enough to get through the leaf cover.

What the hey, I was wet now and it was a hike back to the car so I would only get wetter, so I decided to follow the path through the four state parks. The rain continued my whole walk, although by the time I actually returned to my car an hour later it began to ease.

Oh well, in my last post I said I liked to walk undisturbed and in solitude. I got that today. I only met one other person stupid enou...I mean, dedicated enough to be on the trails. This was a young woman walking a rather bedraggled dog, which looked none to thrilled to be in this weather.  I came home, stripped off everything and tossed my clothes in the drier. But I got my walk.

Drip Dropping Down the Drain

Twenty-nine years ago I pretty much lost a house to the flow of water. I understand the power of water unchecked. It can take out your ceiling, strip off your wallpaper, warp your floors and shut down your appliances. Beyond all the physical damage it can also flood a young mind with paranoia over even the gentlest patter of a spring rain. Ask my daughter about the years of nightmare and terror she swam through in her early youth.

     I've respected water since that time, but it hasn't shown me much respect at all. It certainly didn't this past month.

     It started with an inconsistent drip. I say inconsistent because it was easily stilled by turning the faucet to the center. If the handle stayed at the extreme hot or the extreme cold point, it dripped. Turn it a few degrees toward center and voila, the drip stopped.

     These things never stay so cooperative forever, of course. Eventually it took a bit more to silence the drip. You had to get it positioned to some exact spot for a while, then you had to slam the handle down more firmly and then you had to slam the handle down with a force like John Henry laying spike on the railroad. You know, ka-boom, sometimes more than once. Yet in the end the drip surrendered and shut up.

     Until a couple weeks ago when the drip did not cease, but instead became a waterfall. Oh, it was a thin waterfall, perhaps a quarter inch in diameter, but one doesn't really want a quarter-inch stream of water flowing day and night, does one? Besides how soon will the quarter inch become a half-inch, then an inch and then come with such viscosity the drain can't handle it.

     So I opened the doors of the vanity and shut the two shut-off valves.

     The steady flow ceased, but the drip returned mocking me and the firmness of the valves with a semi-steady drip...drip...drip.

      I did a little up and down slam of the handle and knew immediately the mechanism was beyond hope. Thinking I may have suddenly received some wondrous handyman abilities, I decided perhaps I could disassemble the device and do something, what exactly I haven't a clue.

      Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That's an old American proverb and I'm an old American, so I get my ratchet screwdriver, pop in a Phillip's head and give it a venture.

      There is a screw on top of the knob. There used to be a gold-colored disc covering where the screw resides, but it popped off and disappeared some years ago, so the screw is right there in plain sight. I slot in the screwdriver and twist. I twist, but the screw doesn't. Okay, a bit more muscle is needed. Unfortunately the screws been working out down at the gym and it ain't budging. I mean, this is one tough monkey of a screw. Usually with the ratchet driver I can defeat your average screw, but this isn't your average screw. This is super screw.

     Maybe it is my screw bit. I dig a larger Phillip's head out of the kit and try it, but it just skims out of the grooves. This screw is not going to come out, which is probably a good thing because what am I going to do if it does? Let stubborn screws lie is my motto.

      It's going to nag at my mind now like a dripping faucet. Oh, wait a minute, it is a dripping faucet. It's a dripping faucet dripping even though I got both pipe shut off valves as tight as they go. It doesn't seem there is anything but this situation growing worse.

  


       It's time to call the plumber.    

Water Flows Directly Through My Wallet

About 8:00 Tuesday morning the phone rings. It is a young lady telling me the technician is on his way. He arrived ten minutes later. This is a nice change. Usually when given those between 8:00 and 10:00 windows one is pacing back and forth at four minutes to ten wondering if they will make it when the phone rings to say the last job took longer than expected. That didn't happen this time, must be a good omen.

I went to the door and this kid is standing there. I have noticed since reaching my present age that all the maintenance people who come to service something are kids.

But he is pleasant enough. He slips these booties over his shoes and comes in to see what is to be done.

Well, of course there is that unstoppable faucet in the bathroom and the new vanity, sink and hardware to be installed. There is also a faucet on the outside front of the house that has been dripping for the last eight months or so. My wife figured we should get that replaced as well. And there is the bathtub faucet that seems to be developing its own slow drip. I figure the tub could use a new shower head, too.

He takes a look at the tub faucet. It is a Delta. He doesn't take kindly to the Delta. "It's a good faucet," he says, "but the design is terrible."

He explains how it has three little pipes that connect inside. There is a giant nut behind the knob. The danger is with the faucet having some age now that when the nut is turned it will twist and break the pipes. Then you have a bigger repair.

He examines the sink faucet and agrees it is shot.

We walk outside and look at the leaky faucet.

So after this little tour we go to the kitchen and he begins flipping pages in a book. All jobs are priced up front, no hourly rates, no guesswork. So he tells me the costs and one thing is immediately clear, the tub can wait until another day or a worse leak. Not only is he nervous about snapping pipes removing the Delta, the quote to replace it with a Moan and replace the shower and all is a bit steep for me right now.

We sign the agreements, which includes a three-day change your mind agreement like they always give you when you borrow money or get a mortgage. Seems kind of silly, although with what plumbing work costs maybe one does need a mortgage.  Still, he is going to do the work right now, this instant before the ink dries so what happens if I change my mind in the next three days? Do they come back and unrepair the repairs?

"We'll start with the bathroom sink," he says.

He goes into the hall and looks the vanity over. He is making hmmm-hmmm sounds. I never like to hear hmmm-hmmm sounds coming from the throat of anyone doing work for me. They're not a cat, they're not purring. (I don't think they are purring. Perhaps considering how much I will be paying them, they are purring.)

Here is the reason for the hmmm-hmmms. Our old vanity, the one being replaced, is 20 inches wide. This new model, with the two drawers down the right side that my wife likes so much, is 24 and with the new sink added will be 25 inches wide.  He is concerned the drain pipe will not line up, especially with the drawers taking up half the space.

Oh, boy, I did all this measurement to make sure the thing would fit in our small bath, but never considered the drain pipe perplexity. I had considered the water feed lines lining up given the four inch differential, but having looked in the old vanity and seen those feed lines had flexible pipe I figured it didn't matter. I didn't think the drain would be somehow a different matter.

He does some measuring and then says he may have to cut some off of the drawers, is that all right. Yeah, fine, I don't care cause I don't want to take this thing back and reschedule. (As it turned out he didn't have to cut. He got everything fitted in nicely, if tightly.)

We dodged that bullet and he installed the vanity and sink.

Now we are left with replacing the outside drippy faucet. This should be a piece of cake, I thought. Ha, what a fool I am.

First was the matter of how this would be accomplished. In my naivete I thought the faucet would simply twist off the pipe similar to unscrewing a lightbulb, except maybe with some cutting and soldering involved. Well, cutting and soldering probably was involved, but the faucet could not be removed and replaced from the outside of the house. The pipe had to be worked from the interior of the home.

Second we had to locate this interior pipe. When they built this house they did not make such things as pipe easily accessible. Every time I ever had to get plumping done it resulted in cutting holes in walls or ceilings. This was no different. The pipe ran between walls and would have to be reached by cutting a hole in the back of the entryway closet.

"We don't patch drywall," says the technician.

Yeah, I know, I've heard that several times. Why plumbers are so handy doing a lot of more complicated stuff, but can't patch walls and ceilings they chop up I do not know. It must be a union thing.

Third, he asks where the shut off valve is. Ha, there's the rub. If there was a shut off valve and I knew where it was, that faucet wouldn't have dripped for eight months.  Everything else in the place has a shutoff valve. The sinks do. The outside faucet in the rear of the house has one right in the laundry room above the shut off valve for the water heater. It is a big red lever. You can't miss it.

We begin a search, but as stated, everything is behind walls and ceilings.  We can't even be sure how this pipe meanders about. We get a flashlight and enter the storage shed downstairs, which runs back under the stairs. This is a dark, sometimes low, full of stuff, little room where the main shut off valve is. We search. He sees the pipe that has to be that outside faucet running into the main system, but doesn't spot any shut off valve. So the whole system has to be shut down.

Now it is time for action. There should be nothing more standing in the way, right?

Now the Whole Hole Thing

The technician and I have abandoned any further search for a shut off valve on the external faucet. We have shut off the entire water supply to the house and he is ready to replace that dripping spigot.

(What's the difference between a faucet and a spigot? One starts with f and one with s. They are two words we Americans use for what the British call a tap.)

He goes to his truck and comes back with a bucket, torch, and a reciprocal saw.

Now we have some cats. When the plumber first came and examined the new vanity to be installed, Mark jumped inside as soon as he opened the door. I am concerned about a cat jumping in the hole he is about to make and becoming lost inside out walls. However, once he turned on that overgrown saber saw there is such a gut-wrenching noise all the cats scatter to their preferred hide-y-holes beneath sofas and bureaus. No feline is going to pester the guy while he is doing this work.

Since the pipe is behind the wall of our entryway closet (the double doors to the left of the cats in the picture) I first must empty it out and make space. It is amazing how many coats one can have they never seem to wear. I pull everything off the rod and carry this apparel to the bedroom. I still must remove various items from off the closet floor. Everything not in immediate use gets chucked into this closet.

Now he can begin with his noisy saw and fix this tap trouble.

The hole is cut and the saw is silent and I hear a "Hmmm".

As stated previously, "hmmm"s are never a good sign. He calls me.

He is concerned about what lies behind the wall. We both squat down to peer through the square he cut.

"There's this two by four," he says.

I can see it.

"The pipe is behind it and up about two or three inches."

We both feel up behind this board. Yes, I can feel the pipe right up against the back of this plank.

"I don't know what this board is," he says. "it runs all the way up about two feet."

We both reach up as far as we can through the hole to measure the height of this board. It does indeed stretch up about two feet  therefore, it is not a two by four; more a two by twenty-four. So what is the problem.

"I just don't know why this board is here," he continues. "I have to cut it to reach the pipe, but I just don't know what it is."

"You have to cut it?"

"Yes. There is no other way I can reach the pipe. But I'm not sure what this board is and I'm reluctant to cut it."

Now he is scaring me. What is he saying? Is he saying if he cuts the board the whole house tumbles down around our ears?

Whatever, he really doesn't want to cut the board.

Now he goes outside and takes a wrench to the faucet. He removed the handle and pulls out the upper assembly. I see him go to the truck. He comes back with a short length of pipe with an old faucet in its middle. He sits down and he is tinkering with this old spigot.

Finally he comes back in and calls me.

"I thought maybe I could do something with the washer," he says. (Gee, why didn't we start there?) "But when I got it apart the whole bottom was missing, no washer or screw. I thought maybe I could use part of an old faucet, but nothing fit, so I just put your spigot back together.

"I won't charge you anything for the job because I couldn't fix it."

So we settle up the bill and he goes his way. I have my vanity installed and my bathroom faucet problem solved, but I am also left with a hole in the wall and a leaking outside tap.

We've lived with its little drip for eight months, I guess we can live with forever more.

I figure I better patch up the hole before some cat discovers it. I go to the utility room and look for some spackle or patch. All my containers have dried up. I'll have to run out and buy some.

As I leave, I notice it is only a few minutes past ten. I decide to drive to the DMV and get my car inspected. This has also been worrying my mind all summer. In this state when you buy a new car you don't have to have it inspected or buy a new registration sticker for five years. My car is now five years old and my sticker expires on August 15.  I have not had a very lucky season and I am nervous that the car won't pass, that it will need brakes or shutter, dread, stark fear, not pass the emissions test.

But we are already into the first week of August and I can't put it off too much longer. What is something is wrong? I'll need time to get it fixed. I had been thinking about taking it to the DMV tomorrow, Wednesday, after work. This is the only day the DMV stays open late. But today I am off, it is still early, let's get it over with.

The state does the inspection here. You go through a bay and they work it over. The disadvantage is you sometimes wait in a long line. The advantage is you know exactly what is wrong, if anything, and no garage mechanic can sell you on something you don't need done.

I drive down the inspection lanes and am the third car in line in lane two. I am watching the inspectors working ahead. They seem to be going through it fairly fast and I don't see them sticking any hoses up tailpipes or anything. Maybe they are going easy today and skipping steps.

I am finally number one and motioned down. Come on, come on, come on, he is motioning and then the "hit it" sign and I slam to a stop. This is the brake test. The man asks me for my registration card and how many miles I have. He disappears into his both, makes some marks, hands me back my card and says pull up to any bay with a green light.

They have changed the procedure. Now you go through two bays. This was just the brake check. Here we go, nervous time all over again.

I am again third in line. Now I am two in line and the car before me is motioned all the way down into the bay and the inspector comes walking out of the bay with an orange pyramid. What is this? He motions me forward to just inside the door and motions the car behind me up closer. He then sets the pyramid behind that car. Wow, just made it, this guy is shutting down the lane. Probably going on his lunch break.

I get to the actual inspection station. He walks about the car, lights, high beam, blow the horn, left turn signal, right turn signal, same in the rear, put the car in park and step out please.

No, I'm not being arrested. In newer cars they no longer have to stick a pipe up the tailpipe. They plug a cord into something beneath the dash board. It is much faster than the old days.

He tells me to get back in the car. He tells me everything is fine. He wishes me a good day.

What relief. I worried for nothing. I have passed, now I just need to go inside and pay for a new sticker. I always get the two-year one. The less I go through inspection, the better.

I drive to the administration building and there are no parking spaces. I drive up a row and down a row and around a row and each time if a space opens someone coming the other direction always grabs it before I can get there. I drive out of that lot and ahead is another lot with plenty of spaces. As I enter it I see a sign, "Employee Parking Only" off to my right.

I circle around and go back to the administration building lot. Still no spaces. I see people walking out of that other lot with papers in their hands. The heck with it, I'm parking over there. Maybe employee parking is only the right section.

I get in the building and take a number as if I am at the deli counter of the super market. I have 911. 9/11 is this an omen. Last spring when I came here on another matter I got 666.

Like the deli department, they call your number and direct you to a window. I look at the number now being serviced, 982. I have a wait ahead.

Two hours later, after a quick stop at a hardware store, I am back home patching the hole.

He has cut it in two pieces. I paste in the first piece. Now I get the second piece and set it atop of the first and my hand slips and this piece disappears behind the wall. I remove the first piece again and reach behind the wall as far down as I can. No piece. I can feel a ridge of floor, but just a bit over is another space and into this space the second piece must have fell. It has disappeared into our walls to who knows where, perhaps the Land of Oz.

I reset the first piece. I retrieve all our coats and rehang them. I put the other junk back in the closet. I close the closet doors. As far as I'm concerned the faucet fiasco is over.

If only the faucet had felt that way.

And So It Flows

It is Wednesday, woeful Wednesday, another day in early August in the heat of summer. Not all the plumbing problems were completely solved, but I suppose one can live with a hole in the closet wall and a slightly dripping outside faucet.

Today it is back to work and other things to deal with and it is Wednesday, wonderful Wednesday, when we go out to dinner. Something to look forward to where we will escape the rigors of the week.

I work part-time, not full days. My day is done by mid-afternoon and I go home. I pull in the driveway at 2:30 thinking perhaps I will work on my Blogs or maybe just catch up on another episode of "Lost" on DVD.

As I step from the car, my wife steps out of the house walking down the path toward me. Wives popping out of the house to greet is never a good thing.

"We have a problem," is her greeting.

"What?"

She points to the middle of the front yard where the sprinkler sits at the end of the hose that runs from the external tap. A foot high spray loops in the air from its many holes.

Ah, ha, when the plumber fiddled with the spigot he couldn't fix he made it worse. This is not a good thing.

I go in and immediately to the phone and call our plumbing contractor. The young lady who answers is very commiserative and assures me she can have a technician to our house between 5:00 and 7:00 that evening.

Well, there goes dinner out.

I hang up, go to the hall closet and find a flashlight that works. My wife asks what I am doing.

"I want to see just where this pipe (to the faucet) goes."

I know it runs in from the spigot about two feet east of our front door and I know it then goes behind the entryway closet wall and is behind a big board behind the wall. I know it connects into the main system downstairs in the storage closet. But where does it come down, can I see anything important down in that closet.

The closet is very dark, there is no light inside. Actually, there was, the fixture is still there, but we had some electrical work done many years ago and the electricians said they couldn't fix this fixture for some reason I forget. Can't anyone fix anything anymore. Possibly not. (See my essay in Life, Death and the Lonely Art, "Nobody Knows Anything, Including Me".)

The people who owned this house before us did a lot of -- uh -- improvements. They built a rough and rickety bunch of shelves in the storage closet where it runs beneath the stairs . I have covered these shelves with plastic bins holding the junk we insist on holding on to forever. I also fill the storage closet with larger such bins containing our Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Valentine Day and what-ever-else Hallmark holiday that demands cluttering up the house with cardboard and tinsel. Most of these I had removed to allow the plumber access to the main shut off valve, but I had left the others on the shelves. Now I remove a couple of these and shine my light under the stairs.

What to my wondering eyes should appear? Well, the pipe that runs to the outside front faucet of course. I see it runs back to the rear wall then curves up to where it will meet another joint behind my entryway closet and head outside. But what is that thing sticking down about two inches just before the pipe reaches the back wall. Could that be a shut off valve?

Perhaps, but there is no lever or wheel on it and I'm not touching anything at this point. Let the plumber do it.

And wait, what is that laying back on the shelf? It's the piece of wall board he cut out yesterday that I dropped between the walls. It didn't go to the Land of Oz after all; it just went to the downstairs storage closet.

The plumber; that is, technician, the same kid from the day before is back. I take him down to the storage closet and sure enough we have a shut off valve after all. You just need a pair of pliers to turn it shut.

He is still nervous about that two inch by twenty-four inch board that hides the pipe, but what choice do we have. If we don't want to bleed water profusely across our lawn forever or climb over boxes to a well-hid almost-out-of-reach shut off valve perpetually, we are going to have to cut.

"You're not going to cut the whole board (you know, the whole twenty-four inches), just a little about like the hole in the wall you cut, right?"

"I'm going to cut enough to work," he says. "but you'll have to sign off on it."

"Then cut," I say.

He cuts. He doesn't need to snip much from the board at all, even less that the hole he made in my wall. Why, oh why, didn't we just do this yesterday?

He is there less than an hour replacing the old faucet with a new one. The house didn't cave in around our ears. there have been no quivers and there have been no more drips.

The new spigot is a bit stiff to turn on and off being new, but the important thing is after you turn it off, you absolutely have turned it off. And the new one has a pretty red wheel.

Man, I hate what water can do! Especially to my wallet.

Now all I have to do is finish patching the hole in the wall.

And wait for the reluctant refrigerator...but that's a different story.

Case of the Reluctant Refrigerator or "Waiting for Godot" Redux

VLADIMIR:

Ah Gogo, don't go on like that. Tomorrow everything will be better.

ESTRAGON:

How do you make that out?

VLADIMIR:

Did you not hear what the child said?

ESTRAGON:

No.

VLADIMIR:

He said that Godot was sure to come tomorrow. (Pause.) What do you say to that?

ESTRAGON:

Then all we have to do is to wait on here.

                From Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett


We moved to our present home many years ago on a shoestring with two young girls and a baby boy.  The home was roomy, with a nice sized yard and a huge downstairs family room, making it ideal for people with children. The size and the affordable price came with some sacrifices. Namely accepting that everything wasn't in tiptop shape and beautiful.


The kitchen may have been the most ugly. It was old. The stove was gas and had open flame burners on top of somewhat dubious safety. There was a built-in wall oven, also gas, that worked for perhaps one week after we moved in. There was no dishwasher and a small sink, with a garbage disposal, which quit perhaps a month after the wall oven. The lights were ugly, especially the bizarre yellow and brown chandelier over the eat-in corner. The side walls were covered with a greenish tile and the cabinets were a very heavy dark brown wood, which was beginning to separate.


But it was what we could afford and so we lived with it for a decade and a half. In that time those old heavy cabinet doors, repainted many times and a lighter shade,  began to fall off. We would screw them back up, but their weight and the old splitting wood reached a point where nothing would keep some in place. By the mid-1990s we were cooking in a kitchen Ghetto. Even the refrigerator we had hauled with us from hear and there over the years had lost a handle and looked defeated.


Then the gas range became more erratic and we began to fear either an explosion or dying in our sleep from leaking gas fumes. We could live in this mess no longer. It was time to tear out and rebuild and so I borrowed from my 401K (something that would have repercussions a few years down the road, but that is a tale for another time) and we ordered up a new kitchen.

And so they came and ripped away and all the hanging doors, non-working or dying appliances and threatening ranges were gone. That old gas oven sits forlornly in the rumble waiting to be toted away to the gas range happy baking ground with the old non-working garbage disposal atop it.


Soon the transformation took place.

This was not without hitches, of course, one being a fowl-up on the backsplash for the counters. Somehow it got lost in translation and thus the wallpaper. Eventually the wallpaper was peeled away and the Little Woman got out her tools and tiled the back wall behind the counters. 

Everything was new. We replaced the old gas range and wall oven with an electric range and built-in microwave. We installed a dishwasher and a working garbage disposal. We even got a new refrigerator.


All back in the mid-1990s.

Several months ago our new-now-old refrigerator began to do an odd thing. Water began to puddle on the bottom shelf and in the meat drawer. Just a bit of moisture at first, but over time the water grew deeper and more frequent and we had to be constantly emptying the meat drawer into the sink. I even put in racks on the bottom shelf to keep things above the rising tide. Very annoying and certainly a possible health hazard.


There was also the knowledge that whatever was going wrong, this fridge could stop fridging at anytime. And thus I set out one day to surprise the Little Woman by buying a new refrigerator.


Off I went to a very famous big box store that use to have two names but now goes by only one. It has existed for a long time and was once very famous for catalogues. It was having a refrigerator sale. They had many, many brands and units on display, all with good markdowns.


I had to eliminate many from possibility because of size. We have two cabinets above the space where the unit must go, so this limits the height to less than 68 inches. Not at, but less than 68 inches, and most of the refrigerators I examined were at or above that height.


I also wanted something a bit different from what we had always had, that is a white or almond unit with two big handles on the front. I finally settled on a right sized, black refrigerator and summoned forth a salesman named Babu. 


Babu clicked all the information into the register and then he made that familiar "Hmmm" sound. Hmmm sounds when you are purchasing something are never a good thing.


"Ah," he says, "this particular model is out of stock. Is it an emergency?"


No, it isn't an emergency since it was more of a whim and spur-of-the-moment to come here, but who knows, next week it could be.


"It must be ordered," he says. "Can you wait perhaps 15 days to three weeks for delivery."


"Sure," I say. This is all happening on July 8.


So I buy the black refrigerator and pay for it on a credit card, we shake hands and everybody is happy.  I go home and print a picture of the new black refrigerator off the Web and then I show and tell my wife and now my wife is also happy. Three weeks is not so long to wait. There is a number to check at what time they will show up at the home that you can call the night before delivery. You can also call to see when delivery is scheduled, nice little convenience that.


And so we go on with our lives, dealing with all the other problems that have assaulted us this summer, the leaking faucets and the car inspection and other things I will someday tell you. The three weeks fly by. It is sometime around that fifteenth day and I decided I should call that number and see when delivery is scheduled.


It is all automated. It almost sounds like a real human woman talking to you, but it isn't, but it knows what I want as soon as it answers and says I have a refrigerator scheduled for delivery on August 2.


So okay, that is more like 25 days after I purchased this thing, not 15 or even three weeks. But close enough and I will call Sunday evening next week to get a time frame for the Monday delivery.


We wait out the next week and I come home from work on Friday and there is a message that the store delivery service had called. I call them back and a lady answers, not a mechanized voice, but a real woman with a heavy accent very hard to comprehend compared to the nice clear automated voice. 


"You have a refrigerator scheduled for delivery," she says (I think that was what she said) after I explain I am calling regarding a message, "for August 5," she continues.


What? August 5, I thought it was coming August 2.


"No, no, August 5. You call night before get exact time window. Thank you for shopping..."


Oh well, what the heck. It's only an extra three days. Maybe this is better. I work on Monday, August 2, but I am off on the fifth, so I'll be home for sure when they come. The Little Woman likes it if I can be there for these things even though she is real good of handling such matters.  It just makes her more comfortable.


I do not call on Wednesday evening, I do not pass go, I do not collect $200 dollars, I go straight to jail.


I am up bright and early, as usual, on Thursday morning August 5. I have no idea when they will deliver the refrigerator, but I am not going to wait until the last minute.  The Little Woman had already cleaned most of food from it and we had been eating out almost every night this week rather than buy new groceries until after the new unit arrives.


Still there is stuff remaining.  I carry the frozen items downstairs and push them in our freezer, which is getting pretty much full.


I come back and now I take the milk, eggs, butter, a dozen or so yogurt containers, some cheese and a couple other things and ram these in the small fridge in the computer room. This little fridge is actually my sons and we use it for our personal beverages. He has some beer and soda in it and I have my own soda, chocolate milk, iced tea, water and orange juice there. There isn't much room, but I get the essentials from the kitchen in there as well. Fortunately neither my son or I had stocked up on our drinks lately.


I now remove the kitchen table to allow more room for the delivery guys to maneuver. I take out about a dozen wine and other beverage bottles from the fridge and set them aside on a bench. Now I go out to the shed and get a large plastic tub to put all the condiments from the door shelves in and as I begin this process the phone rings.


It is about 7:o0 in the morning.  I look on the Caller ID and it is the store. Perhaps the refrigerator is this very moment a few miles away and they will be here by 8:00.


I answer the phone and now I am speaking to Anna or something like that, who is another real woman with another real heavy accent and it ain't a Boston accent and it ain't a Georgia drawl and it ain't even a Tennessee twang.  It ain't the King's English either and she is saying something about there was a delay problem with the manufacturer, but the manufacturer does have a refrigerator in their warehouse with my name on it and it will be delivered August 14.


"You call night before, get time window. Thank you for shopping..."


I didn't do well in math in high school, I admit. But I was an accountant for several years. I think I can add and subtract. Tell me what you get, but I get something more than 15 days between July 8 and August 14.


I'm glad they called to tell me. At least I hadn't gotten all the condiments out of the old refrigerator.


I spend the next half hour reversing all I did. All the wine bottles and such, back on their shelf. The milk and eggs and cheese and yogurt back from the computer room. The ice cream back up from the downstairs freezer. The plastic tub back in the storage shed. The kitchen table back where it belongs. The new refrigerator somewhere in limbo.


Now we must wait another 9 days.


Waiting for Frigdot.

ESTRAGON:

Then all we have to do is to wait on here.

VLADIMIR:

Are you mad? We must take cover. (He takes Estragon by the arm.) Come on.

He draws Estragon after him. Estragon yields, then resists. They halt.

ESTRAGON:

(looking at the tree). Pity we haven't got a bit of rope.

VLADIMIR:

Come on. It's cold.

He draws Estragon after him. As before.

ESTRAGON:

Remind me to bring a bit of rope tomorrow.

On Friday the Thirteenth (how is that for foreboding) I again call that number and get the mechanical woman with the gentle voice and that gentle voice says, "You have a refrigerator scheduled for delivery between 4:45 and 6:45 tomorrow..."

"The sun'll come out

Tomorrow 

So ya gotta hang on 

'Til tomorrow 

Come what may 

Tomorrow! Tomorrow! "

Maybe.


I mean, would you trust it to happen at this point?


I am up bright and early Saturday morning, tomorrow is today, and I have moved the frozen stuff and the essential stuff and the wine bottles and the condiments. I have removed the kitchen table. I have carried a large cedar chest up four steps from the entry way and placed it well out of the way of the delivery people. I have moved the dining room table and chairs to clear the easiest path for them to go. 


I am scrubbing out the innards of the old drippy fridge when the phone rings. It is about 7:00 in the morning. I look at the Caller ID and it is the store, de javu all over again.


Man, oh, man, am I starring in a remake of "Groundhog Day"?


I answer and a male voice with a heavy Spanish accent says, "We are delivering a refrigerator today. Please make sure someone is there between 4:45 and 6:45 this afternoon."


Now, we usually go out to dinner on Saturday evening and this may make us leave late and lose the chance of getting into our favorite restaurant, but who cares if this reluctant refrigerator just shows its face.

A minute or so before 4:00 PM a truck magically appears out front. Two nice Hispanic gentlemen carry -- that's right -- carry out my old fridge and carry in the new fridge. 


Now we must just wait 24 hours for the refrigerator to cool before we can put food in. This I will be doing this afternoon. My one though is, what if it had been an emergency? What if the refrigerator just died? Thirty-seven days without refrigeration would be worse that what they had 100 years ago. 


Black beauty is finally corralled. Welcome to our kitchen Godot.

Samuel Beckett waiting for a refrigerator.