LETTERS FROM HOME: SOME OF THE GREATEST THINGS SINCE SLICED BREAD

Sept. 12, 1996

Dear Patty,

Feeling awfully domesticated these days. Sometimes I discover I've been walking around with paw prints on my trousers, the aftermath of Hank and Lucy's usual boisterousness. Other times the magazine titles on the coffee table are reminders. This Old House Journal, The Life of Reilly Is Over, You're Old Enough To Be the Girls In Playboy's Father.

Can't remember the last time I had a beer with the boys down at Broussard's. Wonder if I know any of those boys anymore. Last time I was there, the waitress had a ring in her navel and all I could think about was whether it would heal back up once this need to pierce oneself has passed.

I used to believe, like Kris Kristofferson, that in principle I'd rather be sorry for the things I've done than for the things I didn't do. If you wait awhile, though, you no longer want to do some of those things you were sorry you didn't do.

The domestic life at this moment in post-industrial history is all about gadgets. We admittedly have a gadget for almost every occasion. Coffee grinder, espresso and bread makers. But when it comes down to it, we mostly drink pre-ground drip coffee and eat sliced bread from the grocery store.

The only possible explanation is that we don't want to spend our time grinding and baking when we could be getting a handle on world peace. Truth is, of course, treating ourselves very well is an enormous step in a peaceful direction.

Everyone could probably live quite nicely without most modern gadgets, though. The bagel trap my mother-in-law received for her birthday comes to mind. It has a high-tech look and houses a spring of some kind but basically stands a bagel on its side so you can cut it with a knife. When a bagel trap is unavailable, my left hand also seems to perform that function quite well.

The gadget DC and I have been attempting life without for the past week is a refrigerator. Ours broke and we were told parts wouldn't arrive for another week.

For the past week, DC and I have had the privilege of appreciating just what a fine invention the refrigerator is.

No ice cream. No iced tea. Nothing to take the steam out of a summer day.

Practically every meal has come from Cape Girardeau's legion of fine fast-food and buffet restaurants. You name the burrito or sandwich, we've had it. That's why we were so happy to see the refrigerator repairman yesterday. And why we were so resigned when he discovered that the diagnostician had goofed. That the compressor was locked up. In repairman's terminology, that's bad.

That's what I mean about feeling domesticated. We'd planned a trip to North Carolina, hurricane or no hurricane. I'd dreamed of stepping onto the first tee, squinting into a sunrise off Hilton Head or some such paradise, a brand new Great Big Bertha in my hands. Instead I'm admiring the gleam off our brand new Amana.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.