My Kirby Omega Classic celebrated its 50th birthday right before Christmas. It’s old and past its prime, but it still does the job, just like my husband, Jon. It cost me a month’s salary, but my uncle was a Kirby salesman, so it was part family loyalty and part buy-the-best-you-can-afford. I have a newer one for the main level, but the Omega is all Jon’s for vacuuming his dead animals room downstairs.
I met Jon 42 years ago on Feb. 4, 1983. We are an unlikely match, proving opposites do attract. You know: plus and minus, yin and yang, positive and negative. Most everyone thinks Jon’s the positive pole; upbeat, congenial, great sense of humor. For the most part that’s true, but he also has a negative streak that can drive me crazy. While he’s tried valiantly to top what happened just before Christmas 2017, nothing can match the story of when his Kirby came down with Broken Belt Syndrome.
We considered buying a new vacuum, but the Omega was still in good working condition, so we decided to try replacing the belt. Jon didn’t (still doesn’t) do computers. He wanted to drive 90 miles to Appleton to get a new one.
“Come on,” I said, “It’s almost 2018.”
I fired up my new laptop. (I’m writing this on No. 3. They sure don’t make things to last like they used to.) I paid $2.98 plus tax for three belts; $5 for shipping. Happily reporting my success, I said: “Honey, for eight bucks we’ll get the Kirby back to playing cleanup!”
He reacted with a skeptical frown, and out came the contrarian side of my otherwise almost perfect mate.
Jon: “How do you know that’ll fix the problem?”
Me: “I don’t, but I have to assume so because it was working fine until the belt broke.”
Jon: “How do you know the ones you ordered will fit?”
Me: “Kirby belts are universal.”
Jon: “What if they’re a piece of junk?”
Me: “It says genuine Kirby parts on the package.”
Jon: “How can you be sure what’s in the bag is what’s printed on the bag?”
Me: “I can’t, but we’re only wasting $8 if this doesn’t work.”
Jon: “Which it won’t.”
Me: “Good grief, Gerty. I need an aspirin; I have a headache.”
When the belts arrived a week later, Jon examined them skeptically. “They seem sturdy enough but look too small.”
Now, knowing our past history of working together fixing things, I suggested he do the job while I was grandma-sitting in Fitchburg. He agreed that was a great idea. Neither of us says it out loud, but we both know this time-tested strategy helps us prevent marriage-mayhem. While I’m 200 miles away enjoying my granddaughter, Jon will install the new belt his way, without my uninvited, unwanted and unappreciated help.
When I got back, Jon assured me the belt replacement went well, but I’d been home three days before he decided to test it. He pushed the vacuum around for a while, then yelled a familiar: “Honey, I’ve got problems!”
Me: “What’s wrong?”
Jon: “Vacuum’s running good but not picking up dirt.”
Me: “Usually that means the beater brush isn’t rotating.”
We check. Yup. He spent half an hour trying to get the stupid thing to spin, so I said: “Let me check YouTube.”
Jon: “Go ahead, but you won’t find anything.”
Ten minutes later, we’re watching Kevin replace a Kirby belt. I really hit the YouTube jackpot with this Kevin dude. The perfect teacher, he models the process while explaining clearly what to do. Jon follows along, installs the new belt, turns the belt lifter and puts the head back on.
I watch him work; I want to know how to do this if I ever have to. As he proceeds, I know he’s not doing the belt lifter part right. I foolishly attempt to point this out; he tells me to go finish the laundry. You know how sometimes you’d rather not be right? Yeah. He proceeds doing it his (wrong) way. When he fires up the Kirby, the brush doesn’t turn. Now he’s frustrated and angry. “See, I told you this wouldn’t work.”
Me: “Honey, I think you did everything right except the belt lifter part.”
Jon: “I told you it wouldn’t work.”
Me: “Why not try it again?”
Jon: “All right, but it won’t work.”
He gives it another try and a big smile lights up his still handsome face. “It’ll work now,” he says confidently as he reinstalls the head. I plug it in. He turns it on. Bag inflates, brush spins; vacuum slurps up everything in its path.
I raise my arms in triumph. “Yay. You did it, Jon.”
He gives me a big hug and says, “Miracles do happen.”
Yes, they do, like that frigid February night I met this amazing man. I know I’m so lucky, but then sometimes…
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
Kirby Omega still works, even with belt fiasco
