I unwound from the day on my front porch, a lazy fan turning just fast enough to confuse a wasp that had flown into its arms. A glass of Jack Daniel's on the rocks melted before me as a hot breeze lifted the leafy plants in the yard. I tracked a single droplet of water slowly making its way down the side of my tumbler. It was like an hourglass that had been turned, a distinct accounting of time that slowly slips away.

My wife opened the front door and leaned out. "Your stupid refrigerator is broken again."

It's my refrigerator because I'd been the one to hit "submit" on the manufacturer's Web page to purchase it.

"That can't be," I said. "It's only two weeks old."

"You're right. I forgot that Yarnell's now puts milk in ice cream containers. And that I bought freeze-proof ground beef."

"You're not good at sarcasm," I said, while thinking, man, she's really good at sarcasm.

"You're not good at picking out refrigerators. Call a repairman or I'll haul it to the curb."

"I want to see you haul it to the curb," I said with an uncertain laugh.

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. I knew that meant she would haul something smaller that I cared about to the curb. Like, my pillow.

Our old refrigerator came with the house when we bought it 10 years ago. It worked beautifully. With six kids, we filled every inch of its shelves and compartments. One of the drawers fell apart, so we put in a locker shelf that one of my kids no longer needed. We opened the fridge doors thousands of times to the point where a catch broke and one would bang into a countertop if you didn't open it just right. The ice maker fizzled years ago, but we had those square cube things you fill with water.

Like I said, it worked beautifully. The freezer was cold and the refrigerator was cool. Worn from serving a family of eight, it finally shut down in June. I ordered the new one online. It took a month for it to be delivered.

"I bet you're thankful for my beer fridge in the basement now," I taunted my wife as we awaited delivery.

"Every woman's dream. A husband with a beer fridge."

Strangely, I thought about my grandfather's propensity for keeping a highball in the fridge. That's what he called it. A stocky round glass that looked like it could have been 100 years old with its chips and streaks sat on a shelf in his refrigerator. A light brown liquid filled it to about a finger from the top. There was no lid on it, no covering, no name etched on its side to denote its owner. Just a highball in the fridge.

One day, I was helping him cut bamboo on his land on pre-civilization Arkansas 10, and we took a late-morning break. He went to his kitchen while I filled a water cup. The old refrigerator vibrated as he opened its door and he removed the glass. I watched it fog beneath the warmth of his fingers as he turned back to me, raising his hand in a slight toast. Then, he sipped it. Took another sip. Wiped his mouth and put it back in the fridge.

"What was that?" I finally asked.

He nodded. "Keeps it ready for the day. Can't put ice in it, 'cause it'll just be a whiskey and water, which I hate. Can't pull it straight from the bottle, 'cause it'll be warm. This way, it's ready. Take a sip here, take a sip there. Take a few hours to finish it or just gulp it down in front of a game. Doesn't matter the way it goes down, just as long as you keep a highball in the fridge. Says a lot about a man."

I scratched my chin and nodded, thinking that I have no idea what that says about a man.

That memory came to me as I stared into my brand-new refrigerator that wouldn't cool a thimble of lemonade. All the bells and whistles that I'm sure I paid extra for, and it won't do the one thing it's designed to do, that I need it to do.

I had to either call the repairman or hide my pillow. I opted to call. The nice guy that came out ordered a slew of parts and told me he'd be back in a couple of weeks. My brand-new refrigerator would work as promised.

At that moment, I had a revelation of what a highball in the fridge says. A man goes about his life chasing ego and success. He worries too much and loses sleep over things that prove to be trivial. He gets upset when things don't work right or go even slightly off the rails. A highball in the fridge means a man has had the great honor to raise his kids beyond the age where they'd spill it or sneak a sip. A highball in the fridge means that a man values simple things, like glass and whiskey. A highball in the fridge means a man has made it, because he recognizes and honors both of the previous reasons--family and simple pleasures--and doesn't sweat the small stuff.

I returned to my porch and sipped that whiskey, the dripping hourglass in hand once more. Time moves on. My grandfather died long ago. Four of my kids have left home. I let go of hard feelings much easier now, but I still worry too much.

One day, I'll have a highball in the fridge. I'm not quite there, I know, but I'm working on it.

Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle. "The Strenuous Life" appears every other Saturday.

Print Headline: Working on it

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