Cold comfort

It was just a refrigerator. A large metal box used to keep food cold.

An appliance. A machine. Non-human. And yet, in so many ways, the White Westinghouse that we replaced a few days ago was a part of our family.

Yes, I know – it’s silly to get sentimental about something as commonplace as a refrigerator. But for the better part of our family's history, old White was there in the kitchen, inviting us in for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And, if we gave in to temptation, a few snacks in between.

That was only part of what made White special. For the 15 years we owned our 18-cubic-foot frost-free friend, White was the family secretary…the information desk…the art gallery of the Leer household.

Every important appointment made its way onto White’s door, held in place by one of the dozens of magnets we’d collected over the years from pizza restaurants to nonprofit organizations to insurance companies to wherever it was that we found the ones with the ducks. Not a single scheduled visit to a doctor, dentist, loan officer or auto mechanic failed to appear on White’s cool skin.

White held our lives on its doors

Sports schedules and photographs occupied a large space on the refrigerator. There was the picture of our son in his T-ball uniform, cap slightly crooked and mitt open with a ball wedged in the pocket. There, too was the snapshot of him in the recreational soccer league, wearing those way-too-roomy shorts and standing by the ball that was as tall as his shin. Our daughter was pictured in a graceful gymnastics pose worthy of a perfect 10. In another she was surrounded by pom-poms ready to lead "two bits," and still another attired in a volleyball uniform but way too prettied up to smash a spike onto the opponent’s side of the court.

White helped us celebrate academic achievement, as well. Assignments and tests bearing big red A’s and B’s were posted on the refrigerator. If an appliance can appear to smile, White did it every time we attached one of those papers to its exterior.

Our kids’ artwork routinely hung from White. Original drawings of what we supposed were people and animals – some had two legs, others four – were there. Also on display were coloring book pictures filled inside and outside the lines with crayons. The often bizarre choice of colors – purple humans and yellow trees – would have made van Gogh blush, but not White. Our chilly chum always had room for post-impressionism, and any other art period for that matter.

White was a source of inspiration on days when we needed it most. The short, motivational quotes we affixed to its front and sides reminded us of the important things in life – things more important even than the gallon of milk we reached into White’s belly to retrieve. Many were the times those words – some on the refrigerator for years – helped me get through a difficult day.

Recently, an expensive part on White broke. We learned a repair would be less cost-effective than purchasing a new refrigerator. After comparing prices at several stores we chose a model that looks a lot like White. We bought the refrigerator, and I didn’t think much more about it.

A couple of days later as we began removing all the pieces of our lives from White’s metal body, I realized a central figure in our home would soon be gone. White had been with us since our days in North Carolina, when the kids were young children.

White was an appliance, sure, but it had been much more than just a food storage unit. White had enriched our lives in ways that grocery staples could not.

That old refrigerator had nourished our souls.