Memories of fridges

This picture has nothing to do with this post other than being a) cute and b) featuring a fridge.

I’m defrosting the freezer as I write this.

By that I mean that every quarter of an hour or so I have to jump up and boil another pan of hot water, empty the previous one and stick it in the freezer compartment. After a few hours all the mountains of ice will have melted and I can stick the contents of the freezer back inside: a strange assortment of bread, fishfingers, frozen peas, crumpets and an old quiche. Sounds tempting doesn’t it?

I found myself looking yearningly at Frost Free freezers the other day. How lovely not to have to go through this palaver every few months (or longer given the state of the fridge at the moment). But we’ve had a run of bills so the new fridge freezer will have to wait.

I’m very fond of it though because I’ve had it for over 15 years and can remember the moment I was offered it.

I’d come back from a Greek holiday with a friend and was Greekly brown (as opposed to Englishly non-brown) and showing off my tanned legs at a party given by a friend in Totnes. At that party was a friend of mine’s father, Ron, and his new wife.
Dear Ron was a vicar whose temptation was widows. His last wife – his fourth – was one he met, like the last three, at their husband’s funeral. He was conducting the service, you understand.

But I digress. Ron was moving into his latest wife’s new house (they must have been in their late 70s at the time) and offered me his fridge freezer. Delighted, I accepted and paid him the princely sum of £25. Bearing in mind he’d had this freezer for several years, it’s now well over 20 years old and still functioning. Well, it’s a bit rusty around the edges but it still works which is the main thing.

One of the reasons I’m reluctant to get rid of this fridge is because it reminds me of Ron. A loving, warm hearted man who needed someone to look after. He nursed all his wives, and when the last one died he was bereft. His life started to disintegrate after that, and he lost his sight.

But when I look at our fridge I think of the happy Ron, laughing in the flower scented garden on that warm summer’s evening as he knocked back the wine. That’s the Ron that I remember.