Our microwave died a sparky, explosive death recently. I carried on dramatically, imagining myself struggling like a pioneer on the Oregon Trail, bemoaning the hardship of not being able to reheat my coffee or warm up my lunch.
In truth, we replaced the microwave within 24 hours of its demise, and the effect on our lives was minimal.
The ease with which we restored a crucial part of our kitchen made me realize that we have joined the ranks of the economically stable, those who can buy a small appliance without agonizing over the cost, saving for weeks, or breaking open the coin jar.
I remember the days, not long ago, when purchasing an appliance was a big deal. It’s possible that rural villages have met the advent of electricity with less fanfare than my family replacing the vacuum cleaner. After weeks of using the hair dryer to blow dust out of corners and then sweeping it into the middle of the floor, I vacuumed with a glee normally reserved for the first day of summer vacation. It was the first brand-new vacuum we owned, and it seemed almost magical in its ability to slurp up dirt.
There’s a tiny part of me that misses the days of scraping and struggling, the hand-me-down appliances, the mismatched collection of furniture. The first microwave I owned was a gift from a neighbor. It had no handle, but rather the plastic cap of a two-liter Pepsi bottle screwed into where a handle originally sat. To open the door, one had to lift the bottle cap while yanking the door, and motion that would be considerably more fluid with an actual handle.
In addition to the microwave, the same neighbor gave us an old television set. Some channels had color, some were black and white, and some had sound, but no picture. Channel 6 was apparently on the same frequency as the house phone, because all telephone conversations could be heard loudly and clearly by turning the tv to channel 6. It’s almost embarrassing how much fun we had eavesdropping on each other.
Our couches were second-hand as well. One was cream-colored, with a horrendous orange and green flowery print. I couldn’t imagine who would have bought it new, as its main attribute was its extraordinary length. It clashed with the pink sofa. The pink sofa matched the pink bookshelf, however, so I pretended that I had a color scheme and had done some of this on purpose.
The furniture and appliances that didn’t come from friends and neighbors came from second-hand stores. Hunting for usable affordable pieces had a certain charm; I felt triumphant when I scored a cheap entertainment center or a perfect coffee table. Once I finally owned a set of matching bookshelves, acquired at Goodwill, I considered myself an official adult.
Of course, a house full of donated and salvaged items was not without drawbacks. The hand-me-down stereo came replete with a family of cockroaches. A bag of donated clothing also included a mouse. Figuring out the quirks and defects of each item took some time, and not everything worked as it should.
As we became more financially situated, we were able to purchase new items. My couches match. My dining table and chairs are a set. Sure, we save up for major purchases and pray to avoid expensive emergencies involving the water heater or the washing machine, but for the most part, if something breaks, we can replace it fairly quickly.
It’s an easier life, but a less charming and more isolated one. It’s not the struggle for which I long, but rather the community formed by being surrounded by neighbors in the same boat. We traded our children’s outgrown clothes, my handheld mixer for a friend’s blender, a playpen for a stroller. We commiserated over refrigerators whose death rattle could be heard throughout the kitchen. We all waited for the first of the month together, knowing we could breathe easier and buy better groceries than during the final tortuous week of the preceding month. We held each other up and pulled each other forward.
I’m grateful for economic progress, for no longer having to worry about basic payments such as rent or groceries. It’s a relief to be able to replace the microwave without sacrificing groceries. Still, I miss the gritty charm of a houseful of mismatched castoffs, and the community of people swimming together so we wouldn’t sink.
