MAN vs. MACHINE

Just as living at Chestnut House was beginning to feel like a cross between an episode of P.B.S.'s "1880's House" and "Survivor, Possum Trot," a miracle occurred.

Three appliances, (a washer, a dryer, and a stove) had set in their places, silently mocking us since August. As we passed by, they would whisper catty epithets like, "Sure would be nice to boil some water right about now, huh?" or, "If your pipes weren't missing, you wouldn't be so stinky!"

All of that changed Tuesday when our contractor Tim appeared with a 220 outlet, some Pex pipe, and a wrench. Within a few hours we were thrust, headlong, into the mid-20th Century.

I couldn't have been more excited if I had won the "Showcase Showdown." The appliances surged to life and began the hardest work week they will ever experience. I ran to-and-fro from the laundry room to the kitchen, bullwhip in hand, screaming *THWAK* at the oven, "heat faster!" then at the washing machine *SMACK* "spin harder!"

Ron tore down the street to Aldi, debit-card in hand, and bought a box of groceries. As I watched him put away his haul, I realized he had only purchased food that had to be blanched, boiled, or baked. Cupcakes were started, chili heated, potatoes boiled. As Ron channeled what appeared to be Paula Deen on speed, I loosely interpreted what is considered "washable". Everything made of fabric was up for grabs. As load after load went through the washer, I lost all respect for tags that tried to stifle me with silly words like "Hand Wash" or "Dry Clean Only." Ron turned away from watching his sixteenth batch of cupcakes just long enough to snap me out of a maniacal fit that would've made Howard Hughes proud.

He stopped me just as I was trying to cram two silk Art Deco rugs, an overstuffed club chair,a chimpanzee-fur shrug, and a terrified Atticus into the top of the machine. I still don't know what all of the fuss was about. I'd set the load to "delicate-cold". No harm, no foul.

As we settle into our new "modern" lifestyle, I can't help but feel a tinge of melancholy. Some of our best conversations took place in the backyard, Ron boiling water over a campfire he had started with flint and wadding, while I dutifully beat our Prada slacks against a rock.

Until next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)