A Toast

I reached up and grabbed the bagels from their place on top of the fridge and on the way down reached in and grabbed my favorite cream cheese spread. I popped the bread into the toaster and tried to push the handle down, but both it and the bread just popped back up. On this particular model it has to be plugged in for the handle to stay down, so I reached over and grabbed the cord, thinking that would solve the problem. However, to my consternation, the cord was already plugged in. I pushed the lever up and down a couple of times, just to make sure it wasn't operator error. It wasn't. The toaster was dead. I stifled a sigh of irritation and just ate the bagel untoasted. As I munched, I remembered that I had an old toaster out in the storage shed. I wasn't sure it would still work, but decided, when I had a free moment I would see if I could find it.
I went out to the shed, and contemplated where I would be if I was a toaster. I rummaged among the seventeen years of junk I had piled up in there, and quickly located it.
I brought it in the house and began to clean it up and to reflect on how fast time speeds by. The memories related to this old toaster began to play in my mind as I applied a scrubber, some bleach and an old dishtowel to get it clean enough to toast bread in.
We had acquired the toaster on our wedding day, seventeen years ago this spring. We sat together in front of our families and friends and opened the gifts they brought us, he in his brand new sailor whites, and me in the dress made by my grandmother in 1959 for my aunt, and borrowed for this occasion.
It didn't stand out among the gifts, this toaster, but it seems to be one of the only things still with us all these years later, other than a hand sewn quilt, from my grandmother, and the silverware given by my uncle Ollie, and two unbroken wedding plates.
I remembered the sharp pang of excitement felt then at the newness and uncertainty of everything.
Part of the newness included moving to a military base eight hours away from my nearest family. I set up my new home with the pride of a brand new housewife, and set the toaster in a place of honor next to the sink under the window.
As I cleaned I looked for the crack that stretched all the way across the handle. Aah, there it was. One day not too long after getting married, we accidentally locked ourselves out of the house, and my new husband, climbing in the kitchen window to let us in, stepped on it and cracked it. I was upset, to say the least, that one of my new wedding gifts had now been damaged.
Then came the new baby and lots of midnight toast, along with dirty diapers, bottles, tiny little lacy dresses and much love for the little one that changed our lives.
The toaster served us toast for probably ten years before I retired it to the storage shed and replaced it with a sleeker, newer model. Since then I have been through at least two toasters. They had both been chrome and nickel respectively, with black trim and each time I thought they would last a lifetime, or at least more than a couple of years.
The old white toaster, I reflected, was kind of like my marriage. A little beat up, not as shiny as it used to be, even a little yellow with age, and little rusty in a few places, but when I plugged it in there was no doubt that it still worked.
Feeling foolishly sentimental, I pumped the handle up and down a few times. I felt ridiculous. Who gets teary over a toaster?
But I couldn't help thinking about how fast the time has gone by. That little baby goes to get her driver's permit tomorrow. Now days our conversations with her center around college and career choices and SATees.
Who wouldn't get a little worked up?