TBP CLASSIC: “DEATH OF A TOASTER”

From May 2000, before I’d ever even heard of a ‘blog.’

It has not been a good week for mechanical things here at the dacha. The week got off to a rousing start on Tuesday, when the Richardson County “roads” claimed a new victim.

Here’s how it happened: The main route into Falls City from here takes me down what’s known as Kunz Corner Road (unless you live north of me, in which case it’s known as Palmer Corner Road, but I digress). Now, that particular road carries a lot of traffic, maybe 100 vehicles a day. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot to some of you, but trust me, for a gravel road, that’s freeway traffic. Kunz Corner Road is in such notorious disrepair that the UPS drivers are not allowed to use it. It’s potholed, washboarded, and generally covered with loose gravel.

Lately it’s been even worse than usual. It actually rained here the first part of this week, so now the road is not only potholed and washboarded, but rutted as well. How bad is it? I drove my truck down it on Monday, and dang if the road didn’t bounce me around so hard that the truck sloughed about 45 degrees off a straight ahead track. It gets disconcerting.

So I avoided Kunz Corner Road and started going into town on the Straussville Road. It’s a lot better, with two notable exceptions: there’s a vicious bump on the far side of a railroad crossing just west of the USDA office, and there’s a bridge just north of Straussville itself that has an 8″ deep pothole right in front of it.

Tuesday I ran into town like a fiend, trying to beat a check to the bank. I made it with plenty of time to spare, as it turns out. So I go roaring back up Straussville Road. I hit the rail crossing by the USDA office and catch a little air on the downside. (I love doing that.) I slow down to 50 when I hit Straussville (which is nothing more than a house, a machine shed, and a grain elevator, but the railroad still stops there) and blast it on north of town, because if you catch that one pothole just right, you almost go
weightless across the bridge.

So here comes the bridge KCHUNK and there I go! Once across the bridge, though, I heard this strange white-noise sound coming from the back. I pulled the truck over to make sure I wasn’t trailing suspension parts or a pedestrian or God forbid a shredded tire. I walked to the back of the truck and what to my wondering eyes should appear?

The tailgate, literally hanging on by a thread.

Not a good omen to start the week. Things got worse on Thursday, when I drove the Honda into town via the same route. I had noticed that one of the tires was looking a little low. I returned to the Tire Store of Indentured Servitude, knowing that I’d be out at least ten bucks. It was a nice day, so I meandered aimlessly about downtown while they worked. When I got back, bad news: ALL FOUR TIRES WERE GOING FLAT. The back two just had nails in them, but the front two had worn down to the steel belts. Oh, and it was out of alignment too. It would take $150 to get the car back on the road, plus about three hours of my time. And no, unfortunately, they’d already loaned out their loaner car. Grrr.

What do you do when you’re stuck in a tire store for three hours? That’s a rhetorical question–it’s happened to me twice in the last six months and I *still* don’t know. If it weren’t for the news stand at the Grocery Store Formerly Known As Hinky Dinky, I’d probably be stuck paging through all their back issues of Modern Tire Dealer.

I made it back home by about 4, lighter in the wallet and grumpier than a gathering of “Matlock” fans. It was too early for dinner, but the rumble in my gullet would not be denied. I grabbed an English muffin, popped it into the toaster, and sat down in the living room for just a minute.

Then just two minutes. Then three. Still no POING from the toaster. I sprung back into the kitchen just as the smoke began pouring from the slots. I jerked the plug out of the wall and flung the flaming English muffin directly out of the toaster slots and into the front yard.

That was it. That was all I could take. One too many mechanical betrayals in a week filled with stress. I had no choice. The toaster was going to pay.

I spun it over my head, lasso-like, by its cord, then flung it down the road. (That’s the great thing about living in the country. I’d like to see you try something like that in town.) Then I did it again. And again. Then I picked up all the plastic parts and chucked them into the burn barrel. Charcoal lighter fluid. Match. Two-week-old potato salad. Bye-bye, junk toaster.

The only negative aspect of this senseless act of toastercide, of course, is that now I had no way of making toast. This is a big problem, since toast is one of my four food groups, along with pizza, coffee, and things other people give to me.

Have you shopped for toasters lately? My WORD! I’ve had computers that weren’t so advanced, and here I am thinking specifically of the VIC-20. They’ve all got names like “BagelSmart” or “PastryPerfect” or “LuftWaffle” or some other spaceless Space Age name. I actually found one with something called “ToastLogic,” an onboard COMPUTER CHIP that senses when the toast is done to perfection. Twenty years ago, we would have laughed at such a concept. Twenty years later though . . . well, I still think it’s funny.

I had only two criteria for the new toaster: It had to cost less than $30, and it had to not be a Procter-Silex, since that’s who made the scapetoaster I’d wrecked the day before. I finally found one, a Toastmaster, ’cause hey, with a name like that, they must mean business.

In case you’re wondering, yes. My new toaster does indeed have “ToastLogic.” It makes mediocre toast. Anybody want to play Cowboys and Indians? I get to be the cowboy.