All Appliances Great and Small

Morning comes early at the base of the mountain at Dr. Rob’s Lake Joybehere Appliance Clinic.  The pastoral image of a good doctor tending to his morning chores before attending to his patients floats fleeting through Dr. Rob’s mind, but nothing is ever what it seems and Dr. Rob is all too aware of this.  Rabbits run through the yard as he heads out to feed the chickens, a common enough task, but there is nothing much common in Dr. Rob’s life, like the lack of a lake at Lake Joybehere, for starters. 

Humming his monotone drone deep in his chest, he shoos the rabbits out of his way as he meanders back to the office to meet with Nurse Watchit, wondering if she met the right side of the bed this morning.  He walks into the office and upon hearing her usual morning bluster, he sighs with relief.  So far, nothing problematic. 

“Crazy answering machines!  Why call yourselves answering machines, I ask you?  I call you, you don’t answer, and then you call me back and tell me I called you.  I’ll tell you what I called you, you dumb piece of…” rants Nurse Watchit. 

“So, what’s on the schedule today, Nurse Watchit?” asks Dr. Rob. 

“General Electric just called with his knickers in a knot.  He’s saying his dishwasher has been constipated for about a month.  He said he gave it the old army try and administered a Drano enema, but it’s still all backed up.  So I said to him, Oh really? A Drano enema?  Would you do that to your pipes?  Do you know that in actuality you are doing that to your pipes??  Do you think your dishwasher isn’t sharing the Drano with you every time you eat off anything that comes out of that dishwasher?  Excuse me sir, please explain your title of General?  You got that how?  I swear, he has an IQ of Sub Zero!” 

Dr. Rob’s moustache twitched. 

“So, he’s not an emergency.  He’s been ingesting Drano for a month.  He can go a little longer.  Thinning the herd is what I think.  We got poor Ken More with a dryer problem.  You remember Ken; he’s been mourning the loss of his beloved Roe Buck for years now.  Ken’s dryer has been having chills for the last week or so.   And the Gibson twins are both complaining about their racks.  I’m sure you’ll want to take a look at that.” 

“Let’s get a move on” said Dr. Rob.  “Sounds like there’s a few that need us right away.” 

Dr. Rob and Nurse Watchit load up the truck with the suction machines, spare organs, sutures, thermometers, stretchers, surgical instruments and duct tape needed for the day’s house calls.  Nurse Watchit climbs behind the wheel and down the highway they fly.  They arrive at Ken More’s just as the dryer is gasping its last.  Dr. Rob hooks it up to the meter and verifies that the dryer has indeed flat lined.   

“I don’t think I can take another loss,” cries Ken.  “I’ve kept it on a clean ventilator just like you told me, but I can’t keep it warm.” 

“Now Ken, don’t worry.  I’ve got the part you need right here with me.  A quick thermal fuse transplant and your dryer will be as good as new,” assures Dr. Rob.  He drones his guttural hum while Nurse Watchit swaps out surgical instrument with him with precision timing.  This is the best part of the day for Nurse Watchit, who loves being a step ahead. 

“Feels good to save one now and then, doesn’t it, Nurse Watchit?” asks Dr. Rob.  “Where to now?” 

“Old Mr. Kelvin A. Tor; his washer is incontinent.  I don’t know what he expects, that machine has got to be as old as the hills.  I don’t think there’s anything more to be done.”   

They dash over the Mr. Kelvin A. Tor’s ramshackle house.  The oldest dog in the world meets them at the door with a mouthful of ancient dirty underwear in his mouth.  Mr. Tor shuffles out of the way as Dr. Rob makes his way to the patient.   

“Well, Kelvin, we can put it on life support this one last time, but I really don’t know how much longer we’ve got,” says Dr. Rob. 

“Ain’t none of us know how much time we got,” replies Kelvin.  “Me and that old machine came into this world at the same time.  Let’s jest hope we go out at the same time.  I’m just as leaky and that ol’ boy’s kept my boxers clean this far.” 

“Oh really,” thinks Nurse Watchit, as she clamps a surgical mask on her face to keep from swooning from the stench of urine – dog, man, and washer. 

“Our next call has symptoms that are near and dear to me,” says Nurse Watchit.  “Jenn Aire called and her refrigerator is having hot flashes.  I’d like to see you try and cure that!” 

When Jenn Aire answered the door it was obvious she had been weeping.  “I don’t know what the matter is,” she sobbed.  “Sometimes it’s freezing and then without warning it’s just so hot I stand there and wave the doors open and close to try and cool it off.” 

“Been there, done that,” thought Nurse Watchit. 

“It’s probably just a cold control problem,” said Dr. Rob.  “We can try to replace it and see if that helps with the fluctuation problem.” 

“Damn straight it’s a cold control problem!  You’re going to TRY to replace it??  SEE if it helps??  What kind of quack ARE you!” screeched Jenn.  

Nurse Watchit started feeling warm. 

Dr. Rob’s moustache trembled. 

“Oh, forgive me,” sniffed Jenn.  “Of course you can fix it.  I’ve only ever heard the best about you, Dr. Rob.  It’s just that sometimes, oh, I don’t know, I just feel, well, I can’t explain it, I…” 

Jenn got busy cleaning up the eggs that smashed to the floor while she was flinging the refrigerator door open and shut during her tirade.  The Lake Joybehere team performed the procedure quickly and moved on. 

“Our last call is at your favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant,” said Nurse Watchit. 

“Oh, really?” replied Dr. Rob, moustache quivering in anticipation of a scone to go with his coffee.  “What seems to be the problem there?” 

"Magic Chef called and said his burners aren’t lighting anymore. " 

“His burners aren’t lighting? Why did you keep this call to the end of day?  This should have been attended to first thing!  What if there are no scones to be had!  Oh dear!  We must rush right over!” said the alarmed Dr. Rob. 

Fortunately, Dr. Rob most always has spare burners.  The parts were replaced and he happily wiped his moustache of scone crumbs as they headed back to the clinic. 

“This was a successful day,” said Dr. Rob cheerfully as Nurse Watchit maneuvered them wearily through traffic.   

“Well my day isn’t over yet,” complained Nurse Watchit.  “I still have to unload the truck, clean the equipment, pay the bills, enter the invoices, schedule appointments for tomorrow, and not to mention my all-time favorite part – listen to the phone messages.” 

“Don’t fret, Nurse Watchit.  You are most competent and I have complete confidence in your abilities.  You’ll get it all done, you’ll see,” assured Dr. Rob. 

As the sun drifted lazily down the mountain, Dr. Rob closed up the chicken coop and counted the new rabbits at the clinic.  He meandered back to the office in time to hear Nurse Watchit. 

“How can these fools not understand how to feed a coin op slot? Keeps swallowing her quarters the wrong way!  She’s all jammed up and choking again.  No wonder they call her the Speed Queen.”

 

Let Them Eat Petit Fours

My parents met while they were both patients in a tuberculosis sanatorium in upstate New York.  They also developed lasting friendships with some of the other patients while they were there, many of whom where Catholic priests and nuns.  One of my mother’s best friends was Sr. Leoni. 

My mother would take us to visit Sr. Leoni on Easter and to celebrate whenever one of us kids received a sacrament -- our first communion or our confirmation.  I was not a very devoted Catholic, even as a very young child, but I was devoted to Sr. Leoni and many of the other nuns who received us at their Maryknoll convent. 

Because we always visited during a very special occasion, and because my mother had a penchant for “putting on the Ritz,” she would spend hours on our outfits.  My sisters and I wore our prettiest dresses, poofed out around the hems with inflatable petticoats.  We had ruffles on our underwear, should our ballooned slips ever catch too much air and allow for such a sighting.  Our hats were stiff and the bands under our chins were scratchy, but our banana curls, cemented to our heads with Dippity-do, held our heads and hats in place.  My anklet socks would always keep slipping down into my black patent leather shoes.  But they were shiny shoes that could blind anyone within range.  It was my father’s task to spend the night before burnishing them with Vaseline.

It was a little bit of a drive from our house, but we had no need of dolls or books or other methods of entertainment to keep us occupied until we arrived at the convent.  We were in our mother’s service and it was our mission to stay in uniform and be able to pass inspection throughout the entire visit.  I was a toy unto myself.  My rogue socks needed constant adjustment – difficult to do wearing white cotton gloves.  I needed to check my purse frequently to be sure I had indeed placed my collection envelope in the collection basket during mass and that the quarter had not mysteriously slipped out and into the lining of my pocketbook.  Peering into my pocketbook would make my curls fall into my face and I had to keep my mouth closed to be sure I didn’t lose my appetite on pink hair gel. 

The convent was a mansion surrounded by incredibly landscaped gardens.  The drive alone up the gravel entranceway to the front door through the fields and flowers was enough to satisfy all the senses, but was dulled by the anticipation of the rest of the visit.  No squealing children freed from the confines of an hour long drive were we.  We were regimented and drilled in the conduct becoming Grace McGee’s offspring.   

But as soon as we were on the convent grounds it suddenly became OK.  It was the nuns who came squealing out to great us!  We were invited, desired and loved.  We were clustered about by these great beings garbed in heavy white linen.  We were ooh’d and aah’d over, admired and petted.  We could do no wrong.  We left our worldly childish bodies and were transformed into cherubs.  Our hostesses glided us indoors, inside the wide heavy doors and into the marble floored interior of the grange.  This is where my humanness would begin to slip back into my physical body, as my aforementioned Vaseline shined patent leather shoes proved to be their worthless selves in footwear.  It was impossible to stay vertical and ladylike once their velvet soft soles touched the polished marble.  My toes would perform heroic acts trying to cling to anything solid, but were only successful in furthering the balled up wad of anklet.  To be sure, I never felt the cold slap of marble against my ruffled bottom.  Somehow, a white linen being was ever present and stabilizing. 

We would be ushered into the drawing room for the adult part of the visit.  Generally a curious and sometimes clingy child, I would often hang back with the adults. Not here, however.  There was a bear rug in the room in front of the fireplace.  A white bear rug.  A beautiful soft white bear rug.  That’s it.  That’s all I remember about the adult part.  It is not necessary to have any more memories of that part.  I could roll to my heart’s content on the rug, and then with precision timing, I would be lifted off the white bear rug and escorted down the long marble hallway to the kitchen.   

To the unimaginative, it was simply an industrial kitchen with stainless steel shelves, tables, counter tops, and appliances.  In retrospect, I know there must have been a formal dining room to receive visitors older than us.  But to me, this was where God’s food and my convent-visit treats were created.  The nuns sat us down at the table and magic sandwiches appeared in front of us.  These sandwiches required nothing more of us than to place them in our mouths.  Somehow our bodies became one with them, no chewing was required.  They landed on your tongue, the taste was delicate, smooth, hinting at wholesomeness, exclaiming in deliciousness.  One would disappear in my mouth, another appeared on my plate.  Tiny white bread sandwiches, no crust. White tuna perfectly melded with a hint of celery and mayonnaise. A jam sandwich.  A raspberry jam sandwich cut into a perfect 2” x 2” square.   

The beverage of heaven was milk.  It was an offering only, no demand.  It was not the milk of my mother.  My mother’s milk was made from powdered skim milk mixed with warm tap water and poured from a tainted plastic pitcher that was salvaged from an antique junk sale.  This was ice cold milk, served in a glass thimble to be sipped at will, or not.  I saw the cow who bestowed her milk to us, up on her own cow cloud, udder wrapped in ice, as she smiled down upon us, there in God’s kitchen. 

And then the angels sang.  Lunch was not yet over.  The nuns were now levitating around the table, exchanging sandwich plates for dessert plates.  The choir was reaching the crescendo.  And then they appeared.  Petit fours.  Many, many, lovely, lovely petit fours.  Made in heaven. Served by the seraphim.  To me!!    

It is close to 50 years since I last saw Sr. Leoni.  I marvel at the sequence of events that intertwined her life with mine.  I wonder about interactions I’ve had with other people and the effect those interactions have had on their lives.  I wonder if anyone in the world loves petit fours as much as I do.