“I think the fridge is dying!” my wife called out. The timing wasn’t great. It was Christmas Eve morning, and my wife had been up since 5:30, prepping, cooking, and baking for a mid-morning family gathering. She handed me a gallon of lukewarm milk.
Indeed, the thermometer inside the refrigerator indicated a balmy 52 degrees. The internet told me it should have been no more than 40.
I sighed, then retrieved the user manual that had come with the fridge. We’d bought it six years ago, and the internet also told me that it should last between 10 and 20 years. A sticker inside the door indicated that Sears repair service was available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I wondered whether that was true anymore, since Sears has been through bankruptcy. I pictured a lone Sears employee sitting in a darkened, near-vacant office, waiting beside a dusty, red rotary telephone.
Before rousing that poor guy out of his nap, I consulted my favorite repair expert (YouTube) while tamping down my frustration; who wants to be calling for repairs or shopping for a new refrigerator the weekend of Christmas? The freezer was freezing but the fridge wasn’t; YouTube told me to make sure the condenser coils were free of dust and the condenser fan motor was spinning.
Other potential problems included a faulty evaporator fan, start relay, or defrost timer, whatever those were.
Meanwhile, my wife relocated the contents of the fridge onto a table in the garage, taking advantage of the frigid weather. Perhaps the timing wasn’t all bad. I quipped that we now had a walk-in refrigerator just like at a restaurant.
Later in the day, after the family gathering and before church, I scooted the refrigerator away from the wall and looked at the back.
On some panels, tall lettering warned me of electric shock; the panels were only to be removed by an expert. Perfect! I carefully unscrewed the panels, imagining the lone Sears employee scolding me.
I vacuumed an obscene amount of dust from atop the condenser coils. I watched the condenser fan, spinning happily. I replaced the rear panels and unscrewed a panel from inside the freezer. I didn’t see anything I could fix there; I replaced that panel and moved the ice cream away from the air vents.
While we sang “Silent Night” at church, I couldn’t help considering whether I’d be reaching out to a Sears employee the next day (if he existed at all). Maybe I’d wait until Dec. 26 to avoid interrupting someone’s holiday.
While the children went to bed with visions of sugarplums in their heads, I wondered if my meager repair efforts would be enough to make the fridge work again.
The next morning, a Christmas miracle; the thermometer in the fridge read 38 degrees. I wouldn’t have to discover whether that 24-hour repair line was actually still staffed.
I thought about calling just to wish that bored, lonely employee a Merry Christmas on his red rotary phone; but I also didn’t want to call and find out for sure that nobody was there anymore.
In the end, I decided that he did exist, and I settled on sending him good wishes in my mind. I can still picture him, taking a welcome snooze and being ready to help me, 24 hours a day.