Hughey Hill Unplugged (Or, This Freezer Really WAS Frost-Free!)

    I’ve lost count just how many times I’ve started to write about this experience. But, more than three years after the fact, I’m still trying to find the humor in it. I guess I still kind of blame the whole thing on my Daddy - never mind that he’d been quietly minding his own business in the family plot at Mt. View Cemetery for well over two years when disaster struck.

    But “safety first!” he always taught me. A lifetime spent as first a volunteer and later a fulltime, professional firefighter sparked a level of caution in Daddy reinforced by the hundreds of house fires he’d battled over the course of his career. With that kind of upbringing, it was only natural that every time we left the house for an extended period of time, I would unplug major (ok, and minor) electronics as well as every single lamp in the house. Almost nothing escaped notice; TVs, stereos, coffee-makers (Daddy always called them the biggest fire-risk in any home), the microwave, even the washer and dryer.

    So it was in that mode that I tore though the house, disconnecting every plug in sight as we prepared to leave for two weeks in Alaska. Satisfied I’d done everything in my power to make sure the house would still be there upon our return, I rolled my luggage to the car and left, absolutely, positively, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt certain the iron was turned off (and unplugged!).

    Fast forward two weeks and we were winging our way back from another successful Alaskan adventure. It was during that marathon flight that I contracted a particularly nasty case of the dreaded airplane crud - that flu-like scourge that travels through the tainted re-circulated air that ventilates airline passenger cabins around the globe. In it’s worst form, it can lay you out faster than an overzealous TSA agent and make death seem desirable. To make matters worse, as soon as we landed, we faced an hour’s drive back to where we’d picked up the group we escorted, followed by a nearly five-hour drive home. Hubby stopped and dropped a small fortune on every over-the-counter cold remedy known the man, dispatching me into a drug-induced coma while he drove us home.

    I regained consciousness as we arrived back on Hughey Hill and I dragged myself toward the still-standing house, hoping I could make it to the sofa. As I opened the back door, I was mentally patting myself on the back for thoroughly cleaning the house before we left, when I was stopped in my tracks by an overpowering stench. My first thought was a gas leak, but wait, it was August, so I knew the propane tank was bone-dry and the heaters were off. By now, Hubby was in the house and reeling from the smell, prompting him to bolt back outside and take a critter-count. With all dogs and cats accounted for and convinced nobody had crawled under the house and died during our absence, he returned and thus began the search for the source of the scent.

    Quickly canvassing upstairs, downstairs, kitchen and bathrooms, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Perplexed, we both retraced previously-searched areas again, to no avail. As almost an after-thought, he checked the laundry room and there, discovered a tell-tale trail of water that led straight to the door of our huge, upright freezer. No hum of the motor was audible and quickly it became apparent the appliance was DOA. We’d had the freezer for years, so it wasn’t unthinkable that it had simply reached the end of the road, mechanically. But, as I held my breath and walked into the laundry room to survey the damage, my eyeballs nearly separated from their sockets as I discovered the awful, undeniable truth. There it was, in all its glory - an electrical cord, removed from the wall socket and draped innocently over the top of the dryer. It wasn’t the noxious fumes responsible for the near nausea I felt as the truth slowly and horribly dawned. It hadn’t been the dryer I unplugged two weeks before, but the freezer - the packed-full-of-meat-fish-and-vegetables freezer.

    The phrase “gag-a-maggot” never seemed so appropriate.

    I closed the door, retreated to the sofa and waited on Hubby to figure out the Awful Truth for himself. Much later, he would tell friends that if I hadn’t been so sick, he would’ve gleefully killed me.

    I’ll spare all the gory details of the week that followed, including fumigation fun, like chained-shut-freezer-removal (which didn’t go well AT ALL), and wall scrubbing, all performed from behind industrial strength Home Depot-issued haz-mat masks. Ultimately, it all had to come out - flooring, appliances, everything. 

   All I know is that when it was all said and done, I wound up with a bright, shiny, state-of-the-art, brand new laundry room I never knew I wanted!