Most of the time, when it comes to my vintage Airstream, it's all good. I've got nothing but love for my shiny little Caravel, Stella. And like most people in love, I am blind to my loved one's imperfections.
While discussing this attachment recently, a misguided friend had the audacity to suggest that my trailer is an inanimate object. "Speak no evil", I cried! I vehemently denied the ridiculous idea that Stella has no presence, no personality, no..., soul.
Stella is the very real and perfect in every way that counts. To me, her virtues are many and varied. She is steadfastly available, her presence outside my window unwavering, floating over her little concrete pad like the silver lining of the darkest cloud. She is a soft place for me to land when I'm needy and tired. And for all kinds of mysterious reasons, being around her just plain makes me feel good.
My trailer's faults are so few they are barely worth mentioning. Oh, I admit I'd like to give her an upholstery upgrade and some new carpet, but old fabric and stained carpet are hardly intrinsic character flaws. Changing them would be more like buying her a present, say, a new dress that flatters her curves.
There is just one teeny tiny hardly worth mentioning in the big scheme of things problem. The original refrigerator doesn't work. But, the important thing is that this fact doesn't particularly bother me! I figure that whenever we get around to taking Stella on a road trip, (I'm dreaming of a Wally Byam's Caravan Club Rally), we'll just improvise with a cooler of some kind. It isn't as if I bought the trailer to go camping with, anyway. My vintage Airstream is sort of like a giant tchotchke I keep around like the bottle that Barbara Eden retreated to in I Dream of Jeannie. Oh, Master, you are so unreasonable, (arms cross, hard blink), I'll be in my glittery pillowed bottle until you come to your senses!
But Major Nelson, I mean, my husband, has another opinion about my old Dometic refrigerator. He believes it must be fixed so that it can be used. In his world, everything worth having must be useful, or what good is it? I've noticed the importance of usefulness is fairly common among straight men. It must be why most of them cannot fathom the necessity of tissue box covers or anything made of lead crystal.
Here we come to the point. (I know, you're thinking, at last.)
I have no clue how to replace Stella's fridge. It should be easy, theorhetically. Slide the old one out, slide a new one in. But I've surfed and searched and Googled myself silly over this and have learned that Dometic no longer makes this model and there is no comparable one, at least not on this planet. Airstream wrote back and suggested I find someone who will repair it. A blogger with the same model trailer admits the only way to install a close-fitting replacement is to modify the cabinet, which is major surgery (as in there will be blood) and is a permanent alteration (as in goodbye pristine original condition). So now I'm hoping to find someone between Pennsylvania and California who can repair the unit I have. I'm thinking the odds are probably better for winning Powerball.
Yet I still don't think Stella's broken refrigerator is an imperfection. There is nothing really wrong with my beautiful girl. Stella definitely does not have a cold heart and that is, most assuredly, a good thing.
