On the refrigerator door, of course
By Deborah Salomon
OK, I confess. My refrigerator is still covered with magnets, as gauche as frilly kitchen curtains and rooster wallpaper. Several are meant to be decorative — like the Charlie Chaplin mask (shades of a former Chaplin-themed bathroom, complete with life-sized Little Tramp shower curtain) or sassy, like a ’50s couple bearing the legend “I married Mr. Right; just didn’t know his first name was Always.” Another, by Thoreau, waxes more philosophical, reminding me to “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined.” Maybe next time, Mr. T. My favorite of this genre has to be the Good Humor Ice Cream truck logo recalling the happier days of a marginal childhood.
I just love those flexible plastic magnets that oil companies, insurance agents, taxi drivers and pizza parlors send at Christmas to keep their names in sight, therefore in mind. I love them so much that I have a 2013 calendar holding up my next dentist appointment card.
Which brings me to the reason for their obsolescence. First, beyond our control, some fridge surfaces no longer attract magnets. The fancier ones are treated with a substance that either protects the metal, or mimics it. Besides, you wouldn’t want a body shop logo on a Sub-Zero, or Chiquita Banana on an Insta-View three-door with glass panel revealing contents, or the Pillsbury Doughboy on Samsung’s four-door with embedded TV/computer screen. Second, all the reminders, photos and calendars previously attached in plain view are now stashed in an electronic device.
Example: photos, in flexible magnetic sleeves that lie flat and neat. I adore them. A dozen cling to my fridge, all taken with film and printed on heavy paper. When was the last time a proud Daddy pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it around? Usually, folks just whip out the phone.
But mine are in plain sight, year after year, protected, loved and unfaded.
I also put a magnetic frame around the last Mother’s Day card from my daughter Wendy — a simple cartoon figure of a bedraggled mama with cats hanging off her shoulders and a dog rubbing against her legs . . . me, obviously. I have it close by all day, every day, even though Wendy has been gone for 26 years. Another photo was snapped at my 50th high school reunion, of me and three friends. Ten years later one is dead, another hospitalized with Alzheimer’s.
Enough sad stuff. Why three flexible magnets of the same New Yorker cover? Because each time my subscription is up for renewal they ply me with offers I cannot refuse, and “gifts.” Not that a magnet softens the price. But it works. I still affix appointment cards, passwords, emergency phone numbers (who wants to search through a contacts list when the toilet is overflowing?), silly kitty stuff and pithy cartoons from, where else?
But be careful what you post. My husband and I were invited to dinner at the home of a Vermont barbecue sauce producer I had written about. His daughter and son-in-law were there. After a glorious meal we drifted into the kitchen for coffee. The fridge was covered with magnets and clippings. One was the daughter’s wedding announcement, from the New York Times, no less. My husband turned ashen as he read it. The groom, our dinner partner, was the son of his high school girlfriend who, 40 years ago, looked like Elizabeth Taylor I had been told multiple times.
Were I a mental health professional during the fridge magnet heyday I would make house calls so as to read the writing on the wall, er, the refrigerator: a life chronicle, health history, family tree, pet succession, brag-board, unmade recipe trove, heaven knows what else. Whereas today, the only appropriate magnet is a dinosaur held in place with double-stick tape. PS
Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.
