The Old Girl Finally Gave Out

Well, dear reader, I have yet another loss to report for 2026. I'm not loving this year. Although I began the year feeling very hopeful, it has turned into a year of great loss, and it's only March. This weekend's loss is not pivotal or devastating, but it is a loss just the same. When something has been a part of your life since your early twenties, was gifted as an act of love and generosity, and has been so integral to your life, you feel the tug at your heartstrings. 

Bertha was gifted to me by my dear friend, Ida B., when I moved into my first apartment. Bertha was sturdy, second-hand, and nothing to look at, but she was reliable. She was rather plain and nondescript, but she was strong and could be counted on when she was needed. Bertha was my hand mixer.

Ida B. was an elderly woman who was a dear friend of my grandmother. Ida was our Avon lady for many years. As a child, she would give me her little, tiny lipstick samples when she was done with them. She spent many a day sitting at our kitchen table with a cup of tea or a class of iced tea, discussing the latest happenings and convincing my mom and grandma to buy things they didn't really need. I believe I still have some of the perfume bottles that doubled as knick-knacks, which are filled with overly floral, strong perfumes. I also have pins, earrings, and necklaces from the 70s and 80s; a few I still wear. We had a large collection of Avon thanks to Ida B. It was one of those situations where you had to buy something because Ida was a dear friend.  

In many ways, Ida B. was more connected to me than my grandma. Ida took me under her wing in my 20s. She introduced me to church, she taught me about finances, being frugal, working hard, and turning an ordinary meal into something gentle, comforting, and meaningful. She encouraged me to be independent and not fall into the marriage trap. Men were something to be cautious of and not to be trusted. She told me to work hard, save, live on my own, and know that I could take care of myself before I settled down. 

She was a woman before her time. She was tough as nails, independent, and had seen a lot in her life, most of it challenging at best. I respected her, but I loved her. I believe she loved me, too, in her own hard-ass kind of way. She didn't mince words, and you never had to wonder what she was actually thinking. She was a straight shooter and a good woman. 

 I spent many Sunday afternoons in her tiny kitchen that looked like it came straight out of the 1940s. We ate off mismatched plates, from mismatched silverware, drinking from glasses that were originally jelly jars, but those were some of the best meals I have eaten in my life. When I got my first teaching job, she celebrated me, advised me to be safe, and gifted me a box of random household goods that she had gathered from her own kitchen. There were a few mismatched mixing bowls, some utensils, and a 1980s hand mixer. The hand mixer became my Bertha. 

Bertha and I had a lot of firsts together. She helped me make my first batch of failed mashed potatoes. She made countless cakes, batches of cookies, and fudge. Bertha and I spent many a lonely evening together in Marienville and Brookville. She has celebrated a lifetime of holiday meals with me. She saw me through new recipes, old classics, was the first appliance my baby girl used to make cookies, and has seen almost all my special occasions. 

So, what makes a beige, non-descript Black and Decker Hand Mixer circa 1980s so special? It was a thoughtful gift from someone I admired who didn't have much to give, but made it a point to give me something that would help me in my early life. Who knew Bertha would last thirty-plus years and have such an impact on me? Every time Bertha and I made something together, I was reminded of my friend. 

Bertha's motor finally gave out on Sunday while I was making peanut butter frosting for cupcakes that my sweet girl requested. Jordan had her wisdom teeth out last week, and that has been much more than any of us anticipated. She is on the mend now, but it was a rough week. She asked for chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter icing, so of course, I made them for her. Bertha was giving it her all, mixing up the frosting, but out of nowhere, her left beater quit working, and she made a terrible noise. There was then the smell of overheated oil, and with a gentle groan, Bertha stopped completely.  

I gasped and sadly uttered, "Oh, Bertha! No." She was gone. I set her on my counter, not knowing what to do with her. I finally broke out the "brand-new" mixer I was gifted at our wedding and finished the frosting. It felt like a betrayal to use the new mixer in front of dead Bertha. The Bean came down when she heard my exclamation of grief. I told her about Ida B. and how Bertha came to be mine. She said, "Sorry, Mom," and wandered off to play the piano.

It might have been just a cheap little kitchen appliance that had seen better days, but it symbolized a connection to someone who had a positive impact on my life. Bertha was strong, robust, and steady, much like my dear friend Ida. Ida B. passed in 2007 at the age of 95. I hope she knows that her gift served me well and, most importantly, meant more to me than precious gems. Baking and holiday meals won't be the same without Bertha and, inadvertently, Ida B. 

On this chilly spring day, stay safe, be smart, it's okay to mourn small connections to those who have gone before us, and keep washing your hands.