I couldn’t believe how happy I was to see Old Red when I moved back into my house after the fires.
After dusting and washing her with antibacterial soap, I carefully patted her dry as I spoke.
“Yes, here I am using you again, even though I vowed not to.” The truth is that this little red can opener, which was almost impossible for me to use, had become one of those symbols of home. Although I had constantly sworn to replace her with one I could actually use without bloodying my fingers, she remains.
Not only have I not replaced her, but I’ve kind of settled in with Old Red.
“Still having soup for dinner?” she asked as I dug her blades into a can of Progresso.
“I like soup, and it’s cold tonight.”
“Your daughter would say otherwise.”
“Probably, but she’s not here.”
“You wouldn’t want me to tell her…”
“She doesn’t talk to can openers. That’s my thing.”
Now that we’ve had conversations, I can’t just toss her out. Just as I got used to a squeaky drawer in my kitchen and would feel cheated if it opened minus the noise, I have become used to this ridiculously hard-to-use can opener. Besides, we now have something in common. We both survived the fire. Getting a little blood on my hand while she opened my soup seemed a small price to pay for her years of loyalty, listening to me grouse, “This is the last time you will make me bleed.”
While I once called her faulty and deficient, I now think of her as eccentric, even charming in a way that comes with age. Maybe I am just identifying with her now that I’ve become a bit charmingly eccentric myself.
I find myself reciting a poem written by 89-year-old Merle Perry, a student in a poetry class I taught:
“Do not dread old age.
It is just sitting down
to eat the orange marmalade
you made when you were young.”
Although this old house, where I have lived for more than half my life, cannot write poetry, it does tell stories. The hallway writes tales of lifetimes interwoven.
Life echoes from the walls where their pictures hang: Tears dabbed, treats dispensed and a stuffed elephant in the corner.
These stories light up the dark hallway that leads me each morning from my bedroom to the rest of the house. The narrow stilled tramway ushers me into a new day, serenaded by songs passed and melodies yet to be composed.
Beginning my day with a cup of tea and a blank page, I have decided to buy a new can opener, but I will not discard Old Red. She has earned a comfortable retirement in the home where she spent all her life.
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