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When I married George back in the Dark Ages, one thing was fairly certain: we’d never have to worry about appliances. His dad and granddad owned G. Marvin Holt, Inc. in downtown Burlington, which specialized in Frigidaire appliances. His mom had the fanciest kitchen in town — an original Corning Ware flat cooktop, on which you needed to use actual Corning Ware dishes for cooking. New-fangled frostless refrigerators could slice and dice and make ice the way you wanted it — no metal or plastic trays to fill. Disposals made out of indestructible dinosaur teeth could eat anything and never get jammed. Hot water dispensers next to the sink served up steaming hot chocolate with the push of a button. Trash compactors made heavy work out of too much lightweight kitchen debris. Microwaves had actual high-medium-low settings. You name it — the Holts had it. So, appliances? No worries.
But, a few years went by, and the appliance industry changed drastically — the brand names no longer protected their dealers, and every discount store started selling them. G. Marvin Holt sold to Big Jim Griggs, who may have eventually morphed it into Circuit City. When we moved back to Burlington after army life, people I barely knew stopped me at church to lament the loss of G. Marvin Holt’s 24-Hour Service Guarantee. They knew, that if their trusty rusty fridge went hot in the middle of the night, they could call for repairs without losing a leftover Zack dog or a quart of Melville milk. Likely, this was a terrific marketing policy — really, how often did anyone discover a broken fridge in the middle of the night? They rarely broke down.
Fast-forward to 2022, which is 9 or 10 refrigerator-galaxies away from the solid-gold Frigidaires of the sixties. Appliance life-expectancy diminishes every time you open a door.. Planned obsolesence has replaced 24-hour-a-day guaranteed service, and the results have been painful. Painful right now, in our house.
Back during the hundred-degree temperatures of July, we came back from a beach trip to find our fridge moaning like a dying cow, and the temperature rose with every moo. It was Friday night, after 6:30 PM. George, the appliance-and-construction-guru, groaned in tandem with the fridge, so I jumped in the car and headed for Lowe’s, knowing that if I hurried, I’d get there half an hour before they closed, and we could have a new fridge the next day. (You’d think by now, I would’ve thrown this pesky optimism out the window, but ever the Nellie Forbush, I forget every cloud I’ve ever seen.)
Appliance repairmen in North Myrtle Beach taught me not to even look at a Samsung or LG, and I didn’t want anything made in China. We had long hated our dying icebox — almond, it pre-dated the stainless steel craze — and it was an early model ‘freezer-on-the-bottom’ model that dropped ice, got stuck on packages sliding in and out, and gave us vertigo from leaning over to find whatever it was that had sunk to the bottom. So, I asked about a side-by-side. Lo and behold, Whirlpool (made in Mexico, go figure) had a model that solved the ‘pizza box’ problem — and it could be delivered on Sunday. The delivery guys were to call on Saturday night to give us an estimate of delivery time. They didn’t.
Sunday came — we unloaded the moaning, but still cooling, oldie, ready for delivery. I had carefully measured. The fridge space is exactly 36″. Did you know that the specs on fridges show two different dimensions? The uh, ‘common dimension’ was 36″. The ‘actual dimension’ was 35.725.” Our resident builder declared that it would be a tight fit, but it would work.
So, the truck found us on Sunday, Then, as they started to unload FRIDGE ONE, still in its box, it had clearly been gutted by a forklift.
I figured that they’d just go back to Lowe’s and pick up the next one in line, and come right back. Wrong. They had to return the new one to Lowe’s first, for the damage to be assessed, then, schedule a whole new DATE for FRIDGE TWO to come.
What? You’re asking — don’t you have an outside icebox in the garage? Well, yes. Yes, we do. But said garage is home to a black snake the size of an anaconda, and our resident snake-and-rodent guru refuses to get rid of him, so we have compromised. I only go into the garage in the winter months. The snake and I have an agreement. He doesn’t come in the house; I don’t go in the garage.
Well, about a week later, FRIDGE TWO was delivered. I could barely contain my excitement! It was just right. It’ll hold a frozen pizza box. The kitchen was back in business — for about three weeks.
Late Saturday night, I opened the 3-week-old fridge to get a coke. It was hot. MIddle of the night — where was the 24-hour repairman when I needed him? The next day, I called Lowe’s, and let the phone ring for EIGHT MINUTES — and nobody answered. Later on, I called again — spoke to a nice man, who said he’d put me through to the appliance department, but the phone wasn’t answered, and it cycled back to him, twice. He said he’d leave a message, and he was SURE someone would call me back shortly. I was not so sure. So, I got back in the car, and drove back to Lowe’s. If you don’t live in the country, that might not sound like a problem, but we’re in the next county, a good twenty miles away. That’s time enough for the entire soundtrack to the new West Side Story, so the top-down singalong ride in my Mustang with “Tonight” blaring made it sorta fun.
A walk to the back of a warehouse store is excruciating these days, so I stopped at the customer service window up front. A very kind young woman helped me out. She said they had several of the same model still in stock. She scheduled Fridge Three’s delivery for Tuesday, and gave the rehearsed spiel — the delivery contractors would call Monday night before to give a specific time window. I knew they wouldn’t, but still, I was pretty happy, but Chick Fil-A was closed and I had to stop at a less-desireable drive-thru to take supper home.
Monday night came and went — no call from the appliance people. All day Tuesday, we waited. No calls. No truck. FRIDGE THREE never showed up. So, Wednesday, I didn’t even attempt to call the store. I jumped back into the Mustang, took the top down, and sang along with the Carpenters, as I was pretty sure there would be no “Tonight, Tonight” to sing about. This time, I commandeered one of the ride-around carts, and drove directly to the appliance area. Two beleaguered salespeople were trying to service five or six customers. I arrived back there at 6:38 PM. Finally got a chance to explain my problem at 6:53 — and all my patient waiting was to no avail. “Oh,” he said, “Since you’re still within the 30-day return period, a manager will have to take care of that.” He assured me that the manager was at the front of the store. Got to the front of the store and was told, “Oh, she’s back in the appliance section.”
Back to the appliance section I zipped, fast as that little cart would take me, but she was not to be found. The appliance guy started calling for a manager over the telephone. He was helping another customer, but I penned him in with the basket of my scooter and he couldn’t escape. Every few minutes, he’d call for a manager, to no avail. Finally, he used the magic words.
“MANAGER NEEDED FOR OVERRIDE IN APPLIANCES.”
That got quick attention — they want to make sure a sale gets made. So, a whistle-and-clipboard type young woman came flying in between the washers and dryers. The sales associate told her he needed her to help with my problem, but she couldn’t. “I’m not a manager,” she explained. “I only have the override card,” waving it through the air like she was playing keep-a-way from the unwashed second-class salespeople “She needs to see Valerie!”
“And where will I find this elusive Valerie?” She assured me that Valerie was at the millwork desk, on Aisle 51.
“Aisle 51, did you say? Like I’m going to disappear into the Bermuda Triangle from Aisle 51? ” Yep, that was the place, they both said, laughing, but I wasn’t joking.
The electric cart was still working, but going slower by the minute. I made it over to Area 51, and I promise, there was not a human in sight, much less a desk marked “Millwork.” It was eerie, but really, the logical explanation is that every last customer was lined up in the appliance department hoping to throw money at Lowe’s, but there was nobody to catch it.
I rode up and down the aisles, all decorum left behind in the scratch-and-dent section, belting out, “VALERIE….OH VALERIE? WHEREFORE ART THOU VALERIE?” And, “I LOVE TO GO A WANDERING THRU AISLES OF LUMBER RACKS — AND AS I GO, I LOVE TO SING — I WANT MY WHIRLPOOL BACK…..’VAL-A-REE– VAL-A RAH–There was nobody around to call security on me, so I just kept going — and I kinda don’t blame Valerie for not answering.
After a lengthy suspension of the space/time continuum, I chanced upon a desk. It was on Aisle 49, not 51, tucked in behind a large display of exterior doors and windows — no signage to identify it as ‘THUH MILLWORK DESK.” Every industry has its jargon, but let’s face it, most women who get sent to Area 51 have no idea what millwork is. We expect a few bolts of cloth. But there, right there among the replacement windows, I found my thrill on storm door hill — Valerie, my new best friend.
She patiently helped people in front of me who asked entirely too many questions about a door that was not in stock. I sat on the scooter for t-w-e-n-t-y minutes, humming my little song, and after way too many verses, I was finally able to explain my plight to a MANAGER! This was Wednesday. She said she’d have FRIDGE FOUR sent out Sunday, the first possible day it could be delivered. Still trying to smile, I said, “Oh, what’s another week? We’re recently retired. Won’t be making any more money. Might as well just SPEND IT ALL RIGHT NOW ON EATING OUT!” Valerie was not amused. She’d had it. Don’t blame her. Really, Valerie has been stellar. She’s swimming upstream against a broken system.
When I asked why nobody had called or shown up with FRIDGE THREE the previous Tuesday, she found no record of it in the storewide system. Nobody can admit it, of course, but even from Area 51 any idiot can tell that the nice woman who helped me the previous week hit ‘delete’ instead of ‘save.’ But, I was still optimistic — just another Manic Sunday would be a magic day, as we had tickets for Wicked in Richmond that night.
Now, Sunday is the LEAST convenient day of the week for us. George often has duties at church, and I really didn’t want to be the person in charge when the delivery guys got there — it’s much better if he handles it. Because he’s a man? Well, NO. Because, back in junior high, high school, and Wake Forest summers, he worked alongside the much-beloved Mack Thompson delivering appliances for G. Marvin Holt, Inc. If that doesn’t make him an expert, nothing does.
So — Sunday came. I had been to deliver the Wicked tickets to the kids, and when I drove up our road, a big Penske truck was in our next door neighbor’s driveway, ten acres away. Sigh. I pulled the Mustang over, blew the horn, and gestured wildly for the driver to follow me. He did, and I left to get out of the way while they unloaded FRIDGE FOUR.
An hour later, I came home, excited to FINALLY have a working fridge, but ’twas not to be. When they unloaded this one, they found that Fridge Four’s front door was damaged. The obvious solution to the construction / appliance delivery men in my family was to change the doors, but the deliverers didn’t want to be bothered. George just shook his head, incredulous. Back at G. Marvin Holt, he and Mack would unpack every appliance in the warehouse, inspect it, wrap it in a blanket, and strap it into the truck. They knew how to slide them back and forth without tearing up floors; how to take the doors off fridges, when needed, even how to take front doors off houses to get those hundred-dollar appliances safely into places they’d never have to leave. The art of appliance delivery has disappeared from our society.
Fortunately, this time, I didn’t have to call the number that is never answered, because I have my new-best-friend Valerie’s phone number on speed dial. I texted her right away, and bless her heart, she suggested that she send out a loaner for us to use until the next truck with our model came in. I thought that sounded like a reasonable solution. She sent me a few models to look at — but what Whirlpool considers a 36″ fridge isn’t the same as Frigidaire’s 36″. I looked at the fine print — the 36″ Frigidaire would actually be 36.25 inches, and even greased up with Crisco, it wouldn’t fit into a 36″ hole. So, she found a different Whirlpool model measuring the actual 35.725 width. BINGO! FRIDGE FIVE was on its way.
Yesterday was yet another Sunday — apparently the only day that these contractors know how to get Penske trucks into Powhatan. Fridge Five, the loaner, was delivered. But don’t get too excited. It’s depth was one inch longer than the Whirlpool, it wouldn’t make it through the twist at the front door.
I texted Valerie. “IS IT POSSIBLE TO JUST SEND OUT AN OLD-FASHIONED APPLIANCE REPAIR GUY AND FIX WHAT WE HAVE??” She asked for photos of the serial number and description of the problem. In a nutshell, it sounds like one of those white-noise machines people put in kids’ rooms; the fridge temp has crept up from fifty degrees to seventy; the freezer is showing about fifty degrees, and the ice maker is dripping water since it’s not cold enough to freeze.
Over the years, we’ve had great service from Lowe’s. Back in the eighties, George built about 20 houses in Alamance County — and almost all lumber, doors, windows, sheetrock, plumbing, appliances, paint, you-name-it, came from Lowe’s. So, we’re talking a million dollars in business, small in the grand scheme, but maybe those houses helped Lowe’s become the mega-monster it is today. And no telling how much they profited from George’s commercial construction projects over the years. These days, they’re struggling, like every other company, trying to recover from a pandemic. We had some similar issues down in Mississippi, when we had a new fridge delivered to the tenants in Great-Granddad’s house. We paid the fee to have the old fridge removed in February. When we arrived in July, said fridge was still on the back porch, blocking the door. And Lowe’s is visible from the front porch — not like it was out of the way. I found a wonderful lady there in the Philadelphia, MISSISSIPPI, Lowe’s, who solved the problem — and she used to work at Home Depot in Midlothian, Virginia. The world is still small.
What to do? I’m thinking that all the retired guys (girls, too) we know ought to go over to Lowe’s and get retirement jobs. Y’all would know how to get things done, and could form-sure drive a forklift without impaling appliances. They need people with common sense life experience who aren’t above doing manual work. Or, bring back the G. Marvin Holt, Inc., mom-and-pop appliance stores. They provided great products, great service, and a good living for those who worked there.
For now — we are still awaiting an old-fashioned repairman, or FRIDGE SIX, whichever comes first.
Blessings, y’all — and may all your refrigerators be cold ones!
BethStillSings 