Nostalgic Santa Fe heat warms my face, closing my eyes it takes me back to a time long ago, but just a memory away.

I wish for the smell and the taste of toast made by that old, silver toaster.

 

It was dented, and plastic had melted to its’ side, caused probably by my small hands.

 

Gramma would remind me to hold it upside down, outside our back door, “shake it good!”, she’d say. Old crumbs and pieces would tumble out spreading into the wind. Some would fall down my sleeve tickling me as they made their way. Never once did I notice the little door on the bottom, marked with a big X.

 

Toaster was a magical thing that sat atop the faded, knife-scraped, Formica counter in Grammas house. It held an important position as the one and the only appliance we owned in times before microwaves and other electrical appliances that made life easier, more convenient.

 

On cold mornings, I’d slip two slices of ‘brown bread’ into the silver, metal box and push the lever down. My hand ready with a dallop of salty, yellow, margarine. So good. Gramma always called the cracked, wheat bread, “brown bread”. What funny things we remember. I didn’t understand how the wheat could be ‘cracked’ but cracked it was.

 

On tippy toes, standing too closely I’d peer into Toaster, anxiously waiting while alternately warming my small, brown-like-the-toast hands.

 

The show would begin. I’d watch, amazed as the iron, vertical rods began to turn heat, all the while smelling their pleasant, distinctive odor. Their warmth would tickle my nose hairs causing me to sneeze.

 

The rods would begin to buzz, coming to life, as they slowly burned a brilliant, bright orange as they began to brown my precious bread.

A show indeed I would see on those mornings with my Gramma. Precious memories of another time in another place, when Life was different. I wonder where Toaster is now, I hope that it is still warming another child’s hand somewhere.