Your Departed Appliances
A corner of the Appliance Memorial Garden for readers' own

When I put up the garden in April I thought my own children might read it, and possibly the ladies from the library. Instead the letters began to come from all over, from people who had been carrying these machines around in their hearts for years with nowhere to put them down. Here are the ones I have planted so far, in the order they arrived. I have tidied the spelling a little but the feelings are all theirs. My replies are underneath in purple.

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In Loving Memory
The Pressure Cooker, 1958 – 1977
sent by Rebecca Mahan, Indiana

My mother's. The little weight on top rocked and hissed and spat every Sunday while the pot roast cooked, and my brothers and I hid behind the kitchen door, sure that this would be the day she went through the ceiling. She never did. Not once in nineteen years. She was the most reliable thing in that house and we never gave her one ounce of trust. Survived by a slow cooker, which nobody has ever been afraid of. In lieu of flowers, stand back.

Celia says: Mine rocked too, and I was afraid of it for twenty years, and I was the one cooking. Thank you, Rebecca.

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In Loving Memory
The Bonnet Hair Dryer, 1964 – 1979
sent by Martha Ho, California

Pink, with a plastic cap on a hose that puffed up around my mother's curlers like a shower cap full of warm air. She sat under it every Saturday night reading a magazine and could not hear a single thing we said, which my sister and I made full use of. We confessed to everything under that dryer. Survived by a hand-held blow dryer and two daughters who still owe their mother several apologies. Services Saturday night, eight o'clock, curlers optional.

Celia says: Martha, I had the very same one in blue. I am now wondering what my own girl confessed to.

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In Loving Memory
The Chest Freezer, 1957 – 1995
sent by Nancy Locklear, North Carolina

Thirty-eight years on the back porch. She held deer meat, butter beans, peaches, sixteen summers of corn and the top of our wedding cake, which nobody ever ate and nobody would ever throw out. When she finally quit we found things in the bottom that were older than our grandchildren. Survived by an upright freezer, and the top of the wedding cake, which we moved to the new one. Visitation was brief, because of the smell.

Celia says: Nancy, you are a good wife to keep that cake top. I would have, too.

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In Loving Memory
The Toaster That Did One Side, 1960 – 1988
sent by Alan Weinstein, New York

Chrome, with rounded shoulders. Sometime around 1966 the elements on the left side went out, and from then on she toasted each slice on one side only. We never got her fixed. We just learned to turn the bread around halfway and put it back down. My wife and I did this every morning for twenty-two years without discussing it. When she finally went, the new toaster browned both sides at once and it felt like cheating. Survived by a two-sided toaster and the habit, which neither of us has broken. Flip twice in her memory.

Celia says: Alan, this is the most married thing I have ever read.

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In Loving Memory
The Evaporative Cooler, 1955 – 1983
sent by Catherine Sanchez, Arizona

On the roof of our house in Tucson, a big box with pads that my husband soaked and a fan that roared all summer long and made the whole house smell like a wet straw hat. It was not air conditioning, and we never pretended it was, but on a July afternoon with the doors shut it was the difference between living and not. My husband climbed up every spring to change the pads until he was seventy. Survived by a refrigerated air conditioner, which is colder and quieter and smells like nothing at all. In lieu of flowers, please drink a glass of water.

Celia says: Catherine, we had nothing like it in Ohio, and in Florida everyone told me it would not work in the damp. I would have liked to smell the straw hat.

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In Loving Memory
Our First Home Computer, 1983 – 1990
sent by Harrison Garcia, Texas

Plugged into the family television, and kept its programs on cassette tapes that took eleven minutes to load and failed on the tenth. I learned to type on it. My father did our taxes on it once and never again. My little brother played one game on it so long that the joystick snapped off in his hand. Survived by four more computers, each of them faster and none of them as loved. Please press PLAY on tape.

Celia says: Harrison, I am not sure I understood all of this, but I understood the little brother.

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In Loving Memory
The Answering Machine, 1985 – 1997
sent by Mae Christian, Georgia

Two little tapes, one for the greeting and one for the messages, and a red light that blinked when somebody had called. My mother never once believed it was not a person, and she always said "Hello? Hello?" and then hung up, and then called again and left a very polite message apologizing for hanging up. When the machine finally chewed its tape in 1997 we took the little cassette out before we threw it away. Mama passed two years ago. We still have the tape with her apologizing on it, and every so often we play it. Survived by a digital machine with no tape at all, and one small cassette in my jewelry box. Please leave a message after the tone.

Celia says: Oh, Mae. Keep that tape somewhere cool. I wish I had one of Alvin.

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In Loving Memory
The Electric Fan, 1949 – 1999
sent by Walter Butler, Pennsylvania

Black, heavy as a bowling ball, with a metal cage you could have kept a canary in. She turned her head slowly back and forth across the porch for fifty summers and never once missed one, until the first week of this past August, during the heat, when she stopped in the middle of a turn and looked at me. I like to think she meant to finish the season and just could not. Survived by a plastic box fan from the discount store, which does not turn its head at all. The family thanks everyone who came by to sit on the porch.

Celia says: Walter, fifty summers is a life well lived for anybody. She is the newest one in the garden and I gave her the shadiest spot.

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If you would like your own departed appliance planted here, write to me with its name, its dates, what it did for you and who survived it. Please don't use the makers' names. I don't want anybody's feelings hurt, least of all the machines'.