Honey was in a tailspin this morning because our refrigerator isn’t working, we must wait to plug in the yard sale refrigerator we got yesterday, and people are coming to the house at five this evening. The ‘fridge has to rest for 24 hours because I laid it down in the truck when we hauled it from Beaver.

By “people,” I mean a church group of 25 to 30, most young teenagers, whom we legally must consider as people even though they are not yet fully formed. Attracted by the park-like setting of our house, they are coming for outdoor maneuvers styled “Mission Impossible,” which, come to think of it, is a pretty good description of our refrigerator situation at the moment.

Other people, namely Honey’s sister Lucky Lindy and nephew Joshuway, arrived for a relaxing visit from Florida Friday after a stressful 18-hour drive, four hours longer than it should have taken in large part because of an horrendous crash and car fire at Charlotte, N.C. Charlotte is fondly known as Bottleneck of the South because I-77 and I-85 meet there and twine around each other in a manner recalling the Gordian Knot.

Anyhow, they got here and are lodged in our guest house, also known as the apartment, located atop my garage that grew up to be a house.

We were delighted to have them here because we put Lucky Lindy to work for two hours scrubbing out and reassembling the interior of the refrigerator that our son Seed found yesterday morning at a community yard sale off Tuscarawas Road in Beaver, Pa. Tuscarawas, you will recall, was an Indian pathway through the primordial wilderness known as the Great Trail. Never mind that, my point is that it was a very serendipitous find, considering that our refrigerator had just failed. Seed has a talent for finding low-priced used cars and appliances. My wife, moreover, has a well-documented extrasensory ability to wish things into being when they are urgently needed, so credit to her as well. The ‘fridge cost only $20 and the owners swore it works great, which we shall see after the 24-hour rest period is over.

“I just bought this milk and it’s spoiled.”

Can it only be four days ago that my wife uttered those fateful words?

Our kitchen refrigerator is a Whirlpool that we ordered during Covid and took one year to get, I assume because everyone at the refrigerator factory was sick or dying from the pandemic. Perhaps they were already sick when they put it together. Shouldn’t it have lasted more than five years?

She had a lovely time sorting through its contents, identifying what was already growing mold and what could reasonably be assumed to still be edible. My stomach is iron-clad, so if there is any doubt about a foodstuff, I eat some as a test.

Food and condiments judged to be viable were moved to our old refrigerator that we keep in the basement for cold drinks and watermelons and food-like materials that nobody wants to eat but are too good to throw out.

I should have known that a refrigerator crisis was on the horizon because just weeks ago I bought a mover’s dolly at a yard sale. I almost used it to move a Hotpoint ‘fridge from the ’50s (still working, can you believe it?) that a neighbor gave me for free. I hauled it to daughter Shark’s house because her basement refrigerator died recently. Her boys thought it was so cool, all rusty and with the door that latches so you can’t open it from the inside. I say I almost used the dolly because it is a lot easier to lift a refrigerator on its side and slide it into my pickup truck than it is to lift and transport it upright, like you are supposed to do with older refrigerators because an oil will mix with refrigerant and it takes some hours to settle out.

We did use the mover’s dolly to lug the yard sale refrigerator up steps and into our house, and will use it again when we lug the newish Whirlpool refrigerator to Norm Butler so he can advise repairs or pronounce death.

Honey is feeling better now, hoping the yard sale refrigerator will work when I plug it in this afternoon. Please, please let it be so.

(“A Dead Carp on Shadyside Ave.,” Fred Miller’s third book of stories, is $10, available locally at Calcutta Giant Eagle, Pottery City Antique Mall, Museum of Ceramics, Frank’s Pastries, Davis Bros. pharmacies, and the Old Ft. Steuben gift shop.)