dianaschnuth

My mom bought this microwave when she and I moved out of Tom’s house after their separation. As I recall, it was the first thing “we” bought — even before we bought our refrigerator from those Jehovahs who kept leaving The Watchtower in our screen door for years afterward… but I digress.

When I went off to college, Mom kept the microwave, obviously; I certainly couldn’t bring it into the dorm with me. Then she hooked up with Gary, who had his own microwave. The Panasonic got relegated to a back closet floor in their apartment.

Once I finally left the dorms and got my own place in 2001, I re-appropriated the microwave from its storage spot at Mom and Gary’s place. When Aaron and I moved in together, I believe he ended up performing a “social experiment” with his microwave (i.e. putting it on the dumpster and seeing how long it took someone to pick it up), and we used my microwave instead.

Finally, after 16 years in service, the old Panasonic started making a louder-than-usual hum. And just like that, it was dead. Sunday evening’s sauerkraut had to be warmed on the stove, and I cooked a week’s worth of morning oatmeal in old-school fashion.

Aaron went out and bought a new microwave on Monday afternoon. He bought another Panasonic, figuring that they must be pretty good if the old one lasted for 16 years. As he stood at the Best Buy checkout, the cashier asked if he’d like the five-year warranty, which he declined. Of course, she pressed him, reminding him that the manufacturer’s warranty only lasts for one year — and he informed her that our last microwave lasted 16 years before it finally died.

That shut her up.

One-third of the hits I receive on my blog are from search engines. Therefore, it makes sense to me that, if I put enough identifying keywords in a given blog entry, someone should eventually hit my site who knows a little more about where some of my long-lost friends are. If I dredge out all the forgotten details about my friends’ lives and histories, not only should it make fun and nostalgic reading for my regulars, but it should eventually attract hits from searches about the same person. Hopefully that person will comment or e-mail and give me an update on said individual.

So begins the first in the Where Are You Now series: Mechelle Denise Dunphy, best friend, 1984-1987.

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I remember the day well. I was six years old, and it was December 1982. I was sitting at the kidney-bean-shaped table in the front of my first-grade classroom, with the five or six other kids in my Advanced Reading group.

Mrs. Henighan asked us, “How many of you believe in Santa Claus?”

I raised my hand, of course. What was there not to believe? I didn’t realize there was any believing or not-believing involved. Santa had magic keys to my apartment, and brought me toys on Christmas Eve. End of story.

Only one or two other kids raised their hands.

The teacher then asked that fateful but inevitable follow-up question of the nonbelievers: “Why don’t you believe in Santa Claus?”

One kid said that Santa’s handwriting looked just like their Dad’s. Another said that they’d peeked out one Christmas Eve and seen their parents putting presents under the tree. I think one person said they’d never believed.

I was in shock and denial.

When I got home from school that day, I told my Mom what had happened, and asked her if Santa Claus was real. Of course, she then told me the story of Santa: how there once was a real man who gave toys to children on Christmas, and how we now celebrate Santa Claus as a symbol of the Spirit of Christmas.

It made sense, and the knowledge somehow made me feel a little older. A little less young.

Of all the things I don’t believe in anymore, I still believe in Santa Claus, after all this time. With all my prickly annoyance at insipid Christmas music and my denial of the faith in which I was raised, I still believe in the spirit of giving.

I also find it amazing that so many different brands of myth and folklore could come together to create this magical, mythical caricature of jollity and charity. Saint Nicholas must have been one hell of a guy.