Ah, the joys of motherhood. I often chuckle remembering the tale my mother would share about how she bowled the best game of her life just before I was born. Clearly, a wise choice for a soon-to-be mom—though I might need to revisit the whiskey sour she casually mentioned consuming during her pregnancy at another time. I even have her “Most Improved Bowler” trophy, a delightful little piece with a four-inch marble base topped with a silver figurine of a lady in a skirt, elegantly poised to bowl.
Coincidentally, that week marked the debut of the microwave, which my mom also managed to win. It was a behemoth—three feet long and two feet wide. Loud enough to drown out the lights every time it was used. This monumental piece of countertop radiation made its home in our household when I was born, only to be replaced by a new model around 2000, long after my sister had to sneak it out of the house. I was 27 at the time.
It’s astonishing how long appliances can last—especially one that I’d like to blame for all my poor life decisions. I remember resting my forehead on it, captivated as I watched my food cook. But my sister did it too, and she went on to become a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, so maybe it’s not entirely the microwave’s fault.
Despite our attempts to buy her a new one, my mom was adamant about keeping that old microwave. I can still picture the tears she shed when she saw its shiny digital replacement. It was akin to taking a beloved family pet away from a child and trying to substitute it with a rabbit. The look on her face was unforgettable.
Our home was filled with ancient appliances, but the TV was legendary. Remember when electronics doubled as furniture? Our television was a giant 40-inch box with a wooden exterior, sitting on a swivel base just five inches off the ground. We acquired it in 1978 when we moved to California, and it remained until we refused to pack it for her move to Florida in 2003. Only one button on the remote worked—the channel up button. Imagine the frustration of having to cycle through 52 channels just to find the one you wanted. Yet, we never bothered to walk to the TV to change it manually.
Even now, my mother reminisces about that TV. When she finally parted with it, she gifted it to a tenant, only to learn that he still has it and swears it’s the best TV he’s ever owned. The picture quality was indeed remarkable, and it offered a unique experience where you could watch from both the living room and dining room.
I held onto my first Mac PowerBook far longer than necessary. A 27-year-old microwave and a 9-year-old Mac are practically twins in my world. I was terrified to turn it off for fear it wouldn’t come back on. I didn’t even dare perform software updates, convinced they were designed to sabotage longevity. Unplugging it was a workout in itself, requiring a tedious five-minute struggle to get it working again. Why did it take me so long to buy a new one? Genetics, I suppose—I’m evidently hard-wired to get maximum use out of anything that plugs into a wall.
By 2012, I still had a 32-inch boxy Sony TV my mom bought me in 1998. It was massive and outdated, yet my friends loved to tease me about it. One day, my husband surprised me with a flat-screen TV. Sure, the picture was nice, but it felt too clear—everyone looked worn out, and the sound was tinny. I lay awake that night, heart heavy for my old TV, which was now just a sad relic in the corner. But with a moment of clarity, I realized it wasn’t about the technology; it was the steadfast presence of familiar things in my life. Nostalgia has a way of keeping us connected to our past, and letting go of those memories is never easy.
In the end, my husband’s flat-screen found its way to his office while my treasured TV remained in the living room until I was finally ready to part ways. They truly don’t make things like that anymore.
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In summary, the struggle with parting from the past—whether it’s a beloved appliance or the memories attached to it—reveals much about our identities and the influences that shape us.