The #1 son was home for the day on Saturday. He had some major film-developing on his agenda. While he and his partner in what turned out to be crime were busy at my kitchen sinks, I fled to town for a 44 oz. Diet Coke to medicate myself. We chatted a bit when I returned. They finished up in the kitchen and descended to the basement darkroom that #1 constructed in half of Farmer H's workshop. Don't you all worry about Farmer H. He has large workshop in the bottom floor of the BARn, a workshop in one lean-to of the BARn (but not the one covered with that giant Save A Lot sign he picked up in town when the store was installing a new one), and a small portable workshop on skids over by the chicken pen.
With my tasty elixir ready for consumption, I went to draw a batch of ice to fill my yellow plastic bubba cup. I have to have water on the side, you see. The Diet Coke is a treat. The water is to slake thirst. Well. Imagine my surprise when no ice fell out of Frig's freezer. I felt like Old Mother Hubbard's dog. I pulled out the tray, thinking that the ice might have frozen to the bottom again, so that curly metal thingy couldn't push it forward. Nope. The ice cupboard was indeed bare. Not a crumb, not a smidgen, not a frost flake. And to think, I had just been in the gas station chicken store, which sells bags of ice that could have been purchased and hauled home and poured into the bin for a relaxing afternoon and evening with a surplus of cubes.
"Hey! #1! Where is all my ice?"
"Oh, the ice-maker was jammed. A piece was stuck. I cleaned it out for you. I was wanting to make some ice water, but there was no ice. I put it on 'extra ice' so it would make some faster after I fixed it."
"Huh. I just got half a cup from it at 6:00 this morning. It seemed to be working just fine then."
That boy must think I was born yesterday. I might have believed his story, if not for his penchant of filling a cup with ice, adding a dash of water, then leaving that cup sitting in various favorite locations around the Mansion until it was reduced to a tepid waste.
It did not help his case that I spotted two red Solo cups, one in his room, and one on the kitchen counter, sitting three-quarters full of water, chips of precious frozen solid liquid gold bobbing insouciantly in their languid pools of chilled hydration.