I almost forgot about Monday's most dramatic moment: the climax of the two-week-long-plus epic called Replacing the Refrigerator. This is what all New Orleanians now share, the exercise of either cleaning out the fridge or getting it duct-taped and onto the street, and then finding some source for a new one. All this happened, with the aid of friends and an assistant, but the end point until this afternoon was a new fridge sitting expectantly, its face to the wall, in the extreme front of my parking stall. Getting it up the stairs, wiggled into place, and hooked up proved the final part of the puzzle, and, like the other parts, it needed some Louisiana lube juice--legal tender--to make it happen. Still, I had gotten advance word: the measurements weren't exactly right, the fridge that we had so painstakingly gotten out of Memphis and down through Louisiana might not fit. At best, its freezer door might not really open.
More friends, and some fine workmen, and the fridge is up the stairs. Both doors off, and it's into the residence. And then--it's in, and the freezer door opens enough to get stuff in and out, and, really, how much more open does it need to be? I opened a bottle of shiraz so the crew could celebrate their good work, and delighted for the rest of the day, as I went in and out of my house, in opening the door of the new fridge, where, getting nice and cold, sat...nothing. Now that I have a nice, clean new refrigerator, all I need is a store to sell me some perishables to put in it.