The Kettle

In 1989 DH and I were living in Pocahontas County, West (by God) Virginia, in a (sort of) converted one-room schoolhouse with a hand pump for water and an outhouse. We were great fans of Lehman’s Non Electric Catalog—it was some of our favorite reading—and it was from there we ordered our 4 quart stainless steel kettle. Being both frequent tea (and coffee) drinkers, and woodstove users, a kettle was an absolute necessity, and our little Revereware kettle, bought at a thrift shop, had seen better days.

Our new kettle went with us all over the country, in campers, in houses from the panhandle of Florida to the mountains of North Carolina. Sometimes there was no woodstove for it to sit on, but usually there was, and the sounds it made—creaking, bubbling and hissing—have formed a backdrop for our family’s soundtrack. Now twenty years and two children later, I have just discovered a hole in the bottom of our kettle. I am distraught, more than the occasion calls for, in a strange mourning for this inanimate object that’s always been a part of our family. Now, as ED is making plans for traveling in Europe, and then going off to college; as Bernard is expanding her social horizons and spending less time at home and with her family, it’s the tea kettle that makes me see how quickly it all passes.

We’ll be ordering a replacement, of course, but it’s really just not the same.

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