Andy Young: Getting dark again

By Andy Young

Of all chores that I despised as a child, my least favorite by far was taking out the garbage after sunset.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only child who at one time or another suffered from nyctophobia, or for those not conversant in ancient Greek, fear of the dark. I grew up before leash laws or invisible fences existed. In our neighborhood back then dogs, including a sizable German Shepherd or two, roamed freely, and in my mind the only thing they liked more than knocking over trash cans was taking chomps out of frightened kids whose Simon Legree-like parents had assigned them the job of taking the trash out after the sun had gone down.

I wasn’t a total scaredy-cat, though. Darkness in a familiar setting was okay. But before I reached the third grade, being placed somewhere new where there was a dearth of light brought on full-blown dread. I vividly remember an overnight stay at my grandparents’ house, where the guest beds were located in a windowless room in the basement. When Grandma Spaine tucked us in and shut that door behind her, the only thing that kept me from shrieking bloody murder was that I didn’t want my younger brother, who was occupying the adjoining mattress, to think I was more afraid than he was.

Fortunately, I’ve long since outgrown my fear of lightlessness, and it’s a good thing, too. Next Thursday is the shortest day of the calendar year, and even individuals who don’t excel at math know that leaves a whole lot of darkness in a 24-hour period.

However, those of us in the greater Portland area should probably count our blessings, since we’re going to get eight hours, 55 minutes, and 40 seconds of daylight on Dec. 21, which is eight more minutes than the folks in and around Bangor will receive that day. And those lucky Bangorites will get 14 more minutes than Presque Isle, which will get a minute and a half more than Quebec City, which will get three minutes more than Fort Kent.

At least we don’t live in Barrow, Alaska, where the sun set at 1:15 p.m. on Nov. 19, and isn’t scheduled to reappear until the afternoon of Jan. 23 at 1:07 p.m.

Life is better, I’ve decided, when one isn’t plagued by fear of the dark, so naturally I’m thankful that I’ve grown past that phobia. But that’s not the only thing I’ve outgrown since childhood.

There really isn’t any rhyme or reason to the lengthy list of once-significant things that now play little if any role in my life. Other once-meaningful items I’ve grown out of include all-you-can-eat buffets, grape popsicles, Sugar Frosted Flakes, commercial television, Hostess Twinkies, major league professional sports, the Three Stooges, and Cheech and Chong. (Fun fact: given his career path, it appears that Cheech himself has long since outgrown Cheech and Chong.)

I’ve also grown into some things which I formerly spurned. For example, beets. During my childhood, beets were nasty-smelling purple things in a jar that Grandpa Young, for some inexplicable reason, loved. However, thanks to a few significant friends and a slightly more open mind, I’ve grown to love beets, particularly when they’ve been roasted just right. They’ve got to be fresh beets, though. I won’t eat anything that’s older than I am, and the actual age of beets in a can or jar can be determined only with the help of carbon dating.

I’m grateful that I no longer fear beets, or the dark.

Now if only I could conquer my anxiety about taking out the garbage. <

Andy Young: Laundry Room Drama

By Andy Young

Sometimes the simplest things can cheer me up, like birds chirping early on a spring morning, the delighted gurgling of a smiling infant, or a blazing orange sunset.

But occasionally such mood enhancers are more than pleasant. They’re necessary.

One such situation began last Wednesday. I left for work at 5 a.m. and returned home, exhausted, 13 hours later. Needing to maximize my remaining hours of consciousness efficiently, I hastily threw in a load of laundry before preparing to start dinner. Piling a heap of dirty clothes into the washer, I poured in some liquid detergent, started the wash cycle, and … heard an ominous sound: silence.

Trying not to overreact, I did some quick troubleshooting. First, I checked the fuse box, but no circuit breaker was off kilter. Then I pulled the machine’s plug out of the wall outlet it had been occupying and plugged it into the one directly above it. Nothing changed.

Now it was time to panic. My ancient washing machine was full of dirty clothes, but apparently kaput. I didn’t know if I had enough quarters to go to a laundromat. Or, for that matter, if laundromats still even take quarters. I desperately tried to think of where I could find someone who’d come fix my washer, which day I could take off from work so I’d be there when the repair people showed up, and, most troubling, where I could find the money to replace a non-functioning, presumably expensive vital appliance if said repair people told me it had officially kicked the bucket. My blood pressure was skyrocketing.

Resigning myself to the traumatic days that lay ahead, I started searching for someone who does house calls for sick appliances. The robotic voice that answered my first phone call informed me that the number I had dialed had been disconnected. Strike one. The answering service at the second place advised me that they were closed until the following Monday. Strike two. The earliest appointment available with the third place was the following Wednesday. Strike three.

Out of sheer desperation I called the number listed for Sears, even though I knew they’d closed their last remaining Maine store two years ago.

Someone’s still using their name to repair appliances, though, because after getting the standard automated greeting (“For refrigerator repairs, press one; for dryer repairs, press two,” etc.) and pressing the appropriate button on my phone, I got through to an actual human being.

Reading from a script which expressed his thanks for my calling him and his sympathy for my current difficulties, he transferred me to another actual person, this one a female with an accent I couldn’t quite identify.

After greeting me with the very same expression of gratitude/sympathy her colleague had, she asked if I had checked the fuse box for any flipped circuit breakers. I confirmed that I had, and that I had also unplugged the machine and tried a different outlet, without success.

Then she proposed trying another appliance in the outlet to see if it worked. Lo and behold, the electric razor I plugged in didn’t turn on. Then she gently suggested I check the fuse box again.

Sure enough, circuit breaker number seven, which was unlabeled, was slightly out of alignment. I flipped it forward, flipped it back, and…voila! My washing machine was working again.

Like I said, sometimes the simplest things can cheer me up. Like birds chirping early on a spring morning, the delighted gurgling of a smiling infant, a blazing orange sunset, or a lightly accented voice telling me I don’t need a new washing machine. <