Eulogy To A Refrigerator

Ken “Kenny” More VI
November 25, 2003 – July 26, 2022

by Eric N Gibson
Contributing Writer

To the average person he was Ken More, but to us, he was “Kenny.”
We treated him like family. You might say our world revolved around Kenny. With his magnetic charm he kept our life together. To us he was more than just cold storage, he was our personal assistant. Kenny held onto our calendar, reminders for appointments, announcements for showers, weddings, and events, important papers, even some keys to things forgotten. And he was so proud of the kids, it was as if they were his own. He showed off their good grades, accolades, he even showed their pictures to everyone that came through the door. Yep! Kenny was one of the good ones. In fact, some might say, he was a real stand up kind of guy.
I remember the day Kenny came into our lives, it was at a time when we needed him most. We had just moved into our new home and we were on a budget. Kenny wasn’t the top of the line but coming from a family known for being durable, affordable, dependable, he had great reviews. He wasn’t flashy, but he had purpose. Of a pale complexion, standing five foot eight and one half inches tall, he was built like a Defensive Tackle. With two doors, one on top and the other on the bottom, he was more than capable of taking the unwary out at the knees if left open.
As you entered the kitchen there he stood, built for capacity and ready to take on a heavy load. And WOW! Could he ever! Kenny could really pack it in; condiments, entrees, veggies, fruits, desserts… Oh ya! He loved desserts! Even leftovers were no match for Kenny. And just when you thought he was full, he’d find room for more.
Some research on Ken More the Sixth opened up an interesting family history. He had connections. His was the who´s who in the branding of Twentieth Century America. According to family lore it was ‘Ken More Sr.’ who lent his name to a flagship brand of products that helped build a national department store empire. Just about anyone wanting retail space in that chain of stores for their own wares made models under Kenny’s family name. Kenny could even trace his lineage back to his great great great grandmother who, over one hundred years ago, helped revolutionize the textile industry with her sewing technique. They say she was a real stitch in her day.
Kenny’s great grandparents met in a laundromat. Gramps performed admirably in the service and was mustered out as surplus after the war. It was the right time; a booming economy, automation, “coin ops” on every corner, and there was Gramps, ready to get in on the ground floor. One day, while Gramps was drying some clothes, Granny caught Gramps eye. She had a little wiggle in her walk and spun on over to Gramps side of the room. He always said she had cute crisp lines dressed in plain off white. And the way she wiggled got Gramps all heated up. Some would describe their relationship as boring, you know, “wash, rinse, repeat.” But their uncomplicated simplicity gave them decades of happiness together through life´s loads of wrinkles.
Never knowing his parents, products in a lost generation of American innovation, Kenny is survived by his Great Aunt Gwen and Uncle Harvey, products of the Babyboom. Domestic cooks by trade, their youth was spent smoking at demonstrations. They were eventually picked up in a package deal and shipped out to Oregon where, last he knew, they were working in a co-op making gourmet brownies.
Long about the time Kenny was 16 the years of use and abuse that living with a family of four afflicted upon him began to show. Not the outside scratches, dings, and dents so much as his joints, hinges, and gaskets were beginning to bother him. He dreamed more and more of retirement. He looked forward to the day when he could just hang out in the man cave, keeping a few cold ones within easy reach for the guys who came to visit.
About a year ago, I noticed Kenny began to struggle. He was getting overheated easier. He´d wheeze a bit, let out a sigh or a pop, and he just couldn’t keep himself together without a little extra push from us. After a full exam it was determined he was having some trouble breathing. After a good cleaning Kenny seemed to settle down a bit and was sounding like his old self. He stood there just humming along with the occasional loud pop or knock. At first, his struggles fell on my deaf ears. He let out a knock and I’d just shout “Come in!” thinking someone was at the door. Someone would shout back, “That was Kenny!”
I remember the last time Kenny and I got together for a drink. It was a hot night this past July. About midnight I went down stairs. I couldn’t sleep and thought a nice cold glass of milk would be good. I turned on the light, and there, as always, was Kenny, good old faithful Kenny.
I opened his door and his light came on. I reached for the fresh new gallon of milk, it was cold to the touch. I gave a gentle push to his door, as I had hundreds of times in the past, and turned away toward the counter. Pulling a mug from the cupboard, I opened the gallon jug, that telltale snapping of a new cap as I broke the safety seal from the cover, and I poured a mug full of “Moo Juice.” As I put the cap back on, I turned to Kenny and noticed his door was open about two inches. It was as though his arm was just hanging there, limp, not outstretched as if waiting with open arms to receive the gallon, but ajar. I opened the door, put the jug of milk away, and gave a gentle push, like a pat on the arm, to shut him. Turning out the light I went off with my mug of milk and sat down at my desk in the next room.
About five hours later my son came into our bedroom and I awoke to him and his mother talking. I could barely hear him say, Kenny was dead. The door was open just a little and his light was on, a small pool of water on the floor, but the compressor was dead. And the freezer door too, was open a bit.
It looked like a pizza box had slid down between the trash can and Kenny. It was sticking out just far enough to impede his bottom door from closing properly. I never noticed when getting a drink. With worn hinges and weakening magnetic gaskets, Kenny just didn’t have the strength to pull himself together any longer. And try as he might, he just couldn’t muster any more gusto to keep his cool on that hot July night.
As I replay those events in my mind, those last few moments that I saw him alive, one thought continues to haunt me. That little annoying cartoonish squeaky voice deep within the darkest recesses of my mind screams out: “Oh My Gosh! I Killed Kenny!”
Ken More the Sixth, may you rest in peace.