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I bought a home washing machine the other day and, to paraphrase Harry Chapin’s Cat’s in The Cradle song, it was delivered and installed in the usual way. I didn’t find that possession of this fine-looking streamlined device left me flushed with joy over owning something high tech and new, rather it joined one of those increasingly common moments when I became mindful of caring about things that I never knew had any significant personal meaning for me. Perhaps, this awareness, is a function of age, as now in my late 70s I experience moments when the inanimate becomes animate by being infused with poignant memories and flashbacks of the emotionally meaningful moments that I never knew existed, or I did not fully appreciate when I first experienced them.
Even before the delivery of the new machine, the effect that hearing the news that I needed to replace my family’s more than 20-year-old household washer surprised me. Aside from a few repairs of a relatively minor nature, it went on and on doing about 10 loads of wash a week—delicates, bulky items, slacks, shirts, and underwear and all those pieces of clothes, linens, and other necessities and amenities that any home takes for granted. And, then, when it recently started leaking, I called a reliable repair man, who respectfully gave me his diagnosis with the tact of an interpersonally gifted physician. “I’m sorry to say that this needs an awful lot of expensive work. Without that, maybe, it has a few months left. It’s not worth the investment and stores are having sales now. Go get a new one.”
It was unfair of me, but I was unsurprised, because I do have moments of unfairness, to find that my first thought was that the machine let me down, despite its many years of service. Putting matters into perspective, I patted the white top-loading washer on the lid and mentally thanked it for its loyal efforts. I told it that despite some chips in and discoloration of its finish, due to years of exposure to laundry detergents and chemicals, it still had its looks, even though its internal condition was poor. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I broke the news to it that its ashes would not be joining those of my beloved English Cocker on the mantelpiece. Now, it was time to force myself to go shopping for something I did not enjoy shopping for, spend money I prefer to use for other purposes, and waste time in my older age, when time is more precious and can be better utilized in doctors’ waiting rooms than for my turn in the six-hour delivery and installation window provided by the appliance store.
I am trying to warm up to the new machine. I admit that it has a nice array of features, but it is more touch screen than knobs and for some reason it does not have an end of cycle buzzer, a particularly annoying deficiency since the duration of its refined computerized fabric selection cycles are somewhat unpredictable. I realize that I like knobs. I judge them to be more reliable and enjoy the tactile relationship that I have with them more than that with an electronic keyboard. I have enough touchscreen action in my life with my phone and computer to be satisfied in that domain. I suppose that this preference of mine is a product of being raised during the end period of the mechanical age and spending my whole life bearing witness to its transition into the computer age.
As I do my first series of washes on the new machine, I reminisce about other washes, from many machines during times past. These were the times when I would wash the grass stains out of my son’s soccer uniforms after pre-soaking them; when I would launder a shirt with hollandaise sauce on it from a fine New York City French restaurant, where my wife and I shared a meal with dear friends, some who are no longer living or have drifted out of contact for other reasons; and when I cleaned the tablecloth stain created by my brother, who spilled some red wine on it during an important celebratory occasion. I even thought of the variety of detergents and stain removers I utilized, made available by my wife who always keeps current with the best of consumer household chemistry available in our society. Some of these were effective and some not.
Then, my thoughts wander to memories of the other machines that I have long known were important in my life. Not surprisingly, several cars come to mind. And, while I gained a certain pleasure from having a new 1964 Thunderbird, gifted upon me by my father as my first car, driving it awakened me to the cold reality that the experience of owning it fell far short of fulfilling my erotic fantasies, and that fault lay more in me than the machine. As a result, I came to love the more dependable Japanese autos such as the Toyota Camry and Toyota Avalon, which served me reliably for long years and comfortably accommodated many an enjoyable family auto trip, as well as my lengthy daily commutes to work.
It turns out that my admiration for practicality, derived from forcing myself to confront everyday reality, is a long-held theme in my life. My wife and son still tease me about the pictures I took more than 30 years ago of the large plastic green trash disposal bags that lined the canals of Venice during our, otherwise, romantic gondola ride, a condition so contrary to general images of the city. I, also, give praise to the vacuum cleaners, garbage disposals, steam irons, lawn mowers, and snow blowers that have enhanced my life by assisting with tasks I dislike doing. And, while I can recall many a moment when a new computer or cell phone was worthy of a formal commendation in recognition of impressive increases in their capability and capacity over previous models, I have, inevitably, found their touted star performance turns to be followed by disappointment, I realize that they still fall far short of delivering promised seamless and carefree user experience. Here, I call out, “Siri, Alexa, and Cortana. you know who you really are!”
I am also ambivalently grateful for machines that directly supplement or replace the functioning of not quite right family body parts. My wife, who has both hips and knees replaced to good effect is a model for gratitude and good adjustment in this domain. As for my pacemaker, it doesn’t bother me and I would ignore it, except that I can’t because of the monthly emailed and texted reports on its performance that I receive from my cardiologist, who is automatically sent data about its functioning by the pacemaker’s external wi-fi modem that sits on the night table by my bedside.
Please don’t take the above meanderings to mean that I feel deep attachments to or expectations for all the appliances and machines in my possession. I attribute my affection to some very personal and not fully understood calculus. Recently, my five-year-old smart toaster was acting a bit quirky. It was not adjusting its browning to bagel thickness or multi-grain breads in the way it should. It is a relatively inexpensive item and I doubt that I will miss it much should I choose to discipline it for untrustworthy performance by junking it. At this point, I have decided to put the most negative and menacing of my thoughts aside, as I am a firm believer in the power of positive reinforcement in the form of praise to enhance performance in the most difficult situations. I merely whisper to the toaster that we have a shared problem and it’s my fault more than its and that we can figure it out together. I place the burden on myself for my dissatisfied state by telling the chrome boxy-looking device, “I realize that I might not fully appreciate you, because I am not a breakfast person.” I hear no mental whispers from the toaster in return, it just quietly sits on the kitchen counter, its outer shiny metal surface cool to the touch, while its heating elements glow a blazing orange-red.
Harvey Lieberman
Harvey Lieberman, PhD is a clinical psychologist and mental health administrator. His work has been recognized by major national awards and he has held visiting professorships at multiple universities. His private practice supports clients in preparing and publishing their remembrances.
