Have you

heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in

such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day...?

In Oliver Wendell Holmes'

poem, "The Deacon's Masterpiece, or the Wonderful

One-Hoss Shay," the deacon builds a carriage, vowing

that everything in it will be of such strength and

quality that it will never fall apart bit by bit as most

such conveyances do - first an axle, then a spring,

wheel, or whipple-tree.

It was finished on Nov. 1,

1755, the date of an earthquake that devastated Portugal.

And true to its maker's promise, the shay required

neither repair nor restoration over the decades it was in

use.

"Colts grew horses,

beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away,

Children and grandchildren - where were they? But

there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on

Lisbon-earthquake day!"

The years roll by, and 1855

is nearly gone. "There are traces of age in the

one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But

nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be -

for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part

That there wasn't a chance for one to start."

You can guess what happens.

On the first of November, the parson's taking a drive,

meditating on Sunday's text, when he suddenly finds

himself sitting on a rock, his carriage in splinters

around him. "...It went to pieces all at once -

All at once, and nothing first - Just as bubbles do

when they burst."

We're relating to Holmes'

narrative these days. On a couple of levels.

Our house turns 15 years

old this fall. We've painted it inside and out once, and

it looks pretty good. We've learned to live with a couple

of minor leaks that have steadfastly resisted repair

(move the wooden rocker when it rains hard, and make sure

the computer is covered with a plastic tablecloth when we

go out of town).

Many of the double-paned

windows have clouded, `way past warranty, naturally. And

the screens on the porches are sagging and torn. Like the

screen doors, they bear old wounds of doggy escape

efforts.

But the house itself won't

disintegrate like the one-hoss shay - I fervently

hope! No, it's the contents of the house that are

self-destructing in unison and as inevitably as the meter

of a poem.

The carpet is faded and

frayed. Replacing it will make the furniture look shabby,

and we haven't wanted to spend the money to do that.

Wallpaper hung in 1984 is

curling in kitchen and bathroom. Water heater, furnace,

and air-conditioner are now on borrowed time, according

to household appliance actuarials.

The ice maker on the fridge

no longer tumbles cubes through a hole in the door, and

the kitchen stove, which moved with us from our previous

house, is 10 years past its expected life span. There are

actually rust-holes in the bottom of the oven. The

attached microwave quit years ago. Now scary spitting

noises issue from its innards.

People who know these

things say you shouldn't expect more than 10 or 12 years

out of a mattress. Ours was already old when we moved

here in 1984.

More alarming: When

electric blankets came under fire (ooh, good one) last

year, an expert appeared on the evening news to say he

wouldn't sleep under one made with technology more than

five to 10 years old. Ours is at least 25.

Even the Hoover upright

recently gave notice by refusing to start until Dave

jiggled its insides and soaked them with WD-40, his sure

cure for most appliance ailments.

We bought a new toaster

when the old one started spluttering last summer.

And just last week, Dave's

trusty jigsaw quit - something about brushes being

worn out, he said.

I'm beginning to see why so

many people we know move into brand new houses with brand

new stuff every 10 years or so. Starting out with

everything new and moving before it gets really old means

not having to replace stuff.

What's worrisome is that

the contents of the house are not the only things around

here looking as though the end is near. There are a

couple of creaky people (not to mention one really old

cat) in this house that are beginning to wonder when

they're going to fall into a pile of splinters.

They have startling pains

in their backs, knees that barely function, eyes and

memories that require multiple sets of glasses.

"Memories that require

glasses?" Of course. When you habitually lose your

glasses - or pen or keys or favorite hat with the

frog pin on it - it's simpler to have duplicates all

over house and car.

As long as we have each

other, Dave says, we'll shore up each other's memory and

help each other rise from low stools or too-soft chairs.

Come to think of it, maybe

that's why so many people we know get new spouses every

10 years or so too, to replace one that's starting to

break down. Trouble is, sooner or later, you're bound to

run out of able-bodied candidates.

"In fact, there's

nothing that keeps its youth," Holmes concluded,

"So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a

moral that runs at large;

Take it. You're welcome. No

extra charge.)"

End of the wonderful

one-hoss shay.

Logic is logic. That's all

I say.

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