December 1, 2020
People buy toasters every day. I get one about every 30 years. The $12 Proctor Silex I bought in the Williams Lake Woolco in the early-1990s died today in a smoke-alarm haze. The $10 Everyday Essentials toaster that Chelsea bought me for Christmas today at the Williams Lake Real Canadian Wholesale Club has a large crumb tray to fill, but I trust it. Both toasters, from unionized retailers, unite toast of Christmas Past with toast of Christmas Present and Christmas Future. "God bless us, every crumb," as Tiny Tim didn't say.
The old toaster died in a blaze of smoke, blackened bread, and a beeping smoke alarm this morning. I hastened with a newspaper to aerate the detector and shut it off, to prevent the sprinkler system from springing into action. To be sure, I blew some air on the thing using our hair dryer, and opened the apartment door. A neighbor walking by asked and I explained the heroic death of my toaster as the cause of the commotion, and open door.
They don't make 'em like they used to, I suppose; but like Elwood Blues in The Blues Brother, with his "dry white toast," I adapt to the situation.
The new toaster is cool to the touch, with black plastic sides, unlike the old toaster, with its shiny silver metal sides. Another safety feature, Rule 18 in the handbook, says, "To disconnect, remove plug from wall outlet." "They thought of everything," which is close to what Jake Blues says as he and Elwood drive through a mall. "This mall has everything."
The old toaster and its two too-black slices of bread got dignified sendoffs. The toaster went to a place that collects and recycles old electronics. When I asked Chelsea to sing a Fred Penner song from her youthful days of toast and jam, she launched into "Sandwiches are beautiful, sandwiches are fine," as I walked the blacked bread across the road from our place to the community garden, now in fallow awaiting winter. A young woman hit and killed by a truck on the street was what led to the garden's construction. It's a memorial garden. Birds now eating the toast crumbs are symbolic carriers of my late toaster's crispy, golden-brown memories.
Spring follows winter; toaster follows toaster; so goes the world.
