THE REFRIGERATOR

  Those ladies and gentlemen who have never found themselves "behind" on a job will not understand the following item, but I am sure that l will strike a responsive chord with many people.
  I realized the other day that opening a refrigerator at our place requires daring, and a certain skill in pathology and archaeology. I am a well-meaning soul who always intends to clean out my fridge every week, but who can forget to do so in the excitement generated by an important project -- who's kidding whom? Anything can deflect me from that task. 
  Over the years, I have developed a special vision. that allows me to open the fridge door and take out the fresh and useful food and drink without even noticing the moribund, fur-covered or even prehistoric items languishing in limbo, usually near the rear of the bottom shelves.  
  Today, the man of the house decided to take the situation in hand. While I usually adorn myself with protection that would make a "swat" team envious before venturing too far into the bowels of the dreaded refrigerator, he bravely opened the door and waded in without so much as a paper towel to protect him. My hero! 
  My adoration was short-lived because while he was willing to remove those recycled plastic honey containers and opaque Tupperware bowls from limbo, I was the one who had to open the potentially-radioactive little devils.  
  He did, however, courageously open the vegetable "crispers." Was there ever a more ironic name? Mine are more closely related to the marble slabs at the police morgue but I’m sure the manufacturers mean well. 
  To make a long story shorter, he removed a green pepper that would soon have been eligible for congratulatory letters from the Queen, and some other items that were almost past recognizing. 
  I, meanwhile, was opening the containers using all the caution of archaeologists at the entrance to a tomb that carries an ancient curse. Some of the little tubs had to be quickly re-closed before the poison gas caused a re-enactment of World War I, but imagine my joy when I discovered that a can of expensive black olives was still palatable.

  I have sometimes felt, when listening to war veterans in conversation, that there was a gap in understanding between us that was too large to be bridged. 
  Born and raised on Vancouver Island, I have always taken for granted the safety provided for us as a result of those dreadful conflicts that took place before I was even born. It somehow was impossible to feel the driving urge to protect their homes and families that made the horrible risk worthwhile. 
  Well, this afternoon, when casually listening through an open window to the happy shrieking of children playing in the yard next door, I became aware of it: that willingness to dare anything if it means that those loved ones can frolic in the sun under an untroubled blue sky.  
  I've always thought that few things in this world are truly worth fighting for but I know now that this would be one of them for me                                   July 10, 1985