When I talk every day with Dad, we don’t dwell too much on memories. Recently, however, he was missing his favorite tools, specifically the heavy duty ratcheting jar opener. He was struggling to open the jar of jumbo garlic pickles (technically it’s my emergency supply I keep in his refrigerator, but never mind.) I got the “why didn’t you consult with me about what to bring to the apartment and what to throw out” speech. I pointed out that we were all a bit busy at that time dealing with renal failure and saving his life, however I did transport other great kitchen utensils. I suggested using hot water, whacking the jar to loosen the vacuum seal, rubber grabbers, getting a NEW opener (god forbid), even asking the maintenance crew to assist. Then I remembered this particular device from my childhood and it was kind of cool, so I searched the Internet for a replacement. I found one – made in 1935, available from a lady who specializes in estate sale goodies. (This is a revenue path my brother and I had not considered when we offloaded pounds of junk to Goodwill – a lost opportunity). I had the “vintage” jar opener mailed to Dad. His opener was from the 1950s; really, how different could it be?
Although my father appreciated the effort, the antique opener didn’t meet his expectations. Then my brother told me that Dad actually gave him the utensil, decades ago. It’s buried deep in a drawer somewhere in his Long Island home. Now Dan has to find it and bring it to San Diego on his next trip, along with a dozen fresh bagels. He also reminded me about the time we had Dad itemize which top 10 things he would rescue if the house was on fire. Tools were number 1. My mother was number 8. I asked Dad today if he remembered those priorities - he laughed and said yes, and he wouldn’t change the list. What were numbers 2 through 7? He’s not telling.
