Shed a Little Light, Oh Lord

Shed A Little Light, Oh Lord!

Always an avid reader, Alby found himself with a lot more time to enjoy his ever-present stack of books. Even before cancer invaded his life, he read an average of three books a week and now that he lacked the energy to do much of anything else, he read all day long. The novels offered a mental vacation and allowed him to forget how rotten he felt.
Alby got comfortable on his grey flannel chair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and turned on the table lamp; because he was blind in one eye, he needed the light on even during the daytime. I’m not sure what measurements are used to determine the lifetime of a bulb, I only know that their claims for being long-lasting found us replacing the bulbs fairly often.
I was sitting on the couch in the den, a few feet away from Alby, when the bulb blew out again. It popped and the tiny pieces of metal filament rained down along the inside of the glass like confetti. Alby put down his book and started to get out of his seat.
“Where are you going, Dad?” I asked.
“To get a new bulb.”
“You’re not going to change it, are you?” I asked, unable to prevent myself from laughing.
“Don’t get so smuckin’ fart with me,” he answered as his lips curved into an unavoidable smile. “That was a long time ago.”

In 1970 our family moved from our decades-old home in Hillside, New Jersey to a custom-built modern colonial in Springfield, New Jersey. The house boasted all the latest gadgets and fashionable accoutrements including green shag carpeting and bold floral bed linens. Of particular note was the upstairs hall bathroom (translation: MINE!); it was functionality and flair combined. After having shared one bathroom between the five of us for so long in our old house, coupled with the fact that I had just entered ninth grade, having my own bathroom was my idea of heaven. I practically lived in there.
It had a double-sink vanity with black cabinetry that stood out against the yellow tiles and painted walls. Above each sink hung a contemporary lighting fixture; hanging from a long chain was a conical-shaped black metal housing and within that housing was a mottled glass globe that held a light bulb. My mother had gone with the most chi-chi decorator who advised that these fixtures were “groovy” and “totally funkadelic”.
Alby, being Alby, couldn’t have cared any less what they looked like. He only knew that I was happy and that was all that mattered. All that changed, however, when one of the bulbs blew out. You would think it’s no big deal, but then you don’t know my father.
“Daddy, the light bulb blew out and, like, I can’t see to put on my makeup and, like, I need to be able to have more light in there and so, like, do you think you can, like, change it for me? Huh Daddy?” Precious, wasn’t I? One thing you need to know is that nothing, and I mean nothing, ever stood between Alby and me so if his baby needed something, he was a man on fire to get it.
Alby grabbed a pack of bulbs and the step ladder and immediately set to work.
If you’ve ever changed a light bulb then you know it doesn’t require a rocket science degree from Harvard. You’d think a C.P.A. from New York University, graduating with honors, wouldn’t have too much difficulty but I would urge you to think again.
I was in my bedroom, no more than thirty feet away, when I heard a crash. Mom and I practically collided as we raced from opposite ends of the hallway toward the bathroom to see what had happened. And there, like a frame from a newspaper comic strip, stood my father covered in plaster dust. All around him on the floor were pieces of the light fixture and fairly large chunks of the ceiling. Looking up I saw a cavernous hole from which black electric wires hung and dangled like intertwined snakes.
As though on cue, Alby took his finger and wiped away the plaster dust first from his left eyeglass lens and then from his right. He looked around at what he’d wrought as Mom and I tried to fan away the clouds.
“What in the world happened?” Mom asked.
With eyes dancing Alby replied, “Give me a pencil and a ledger sheet and I can work miracles. You want a light bulb changed? Call an electrician!”
Dad slowly climbed down from the stepladder and swept his hands up and down his arms to clean them off. Mom looked like she was going to erupt in anger as she looked around the groovy, funkadelic bathroom in its newly designed state of disrepair. I personally thought it was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen but knew enough to keep that opinion to myself.
Alby walked calmly down the steps leaving white powdery footprints on the carpet. Still looking ghostly, he opened up the phone book and found the listings for electricians. Zeroing in on one, he dialed the number and wiped his face on a towel while he waited for an answer.
“Hello? Yes. I need an electrician right away. There’s a bit of an emergency here. What’s the emergency? Oh, well, I tried to change a light bulb and now the ceiling has fallen and the wires are exposed. Kidding? No, why would I be kidding? No, really, that’s what happened. Okay. Tomorrow at 2. Thank you.”
Fourteen years of being his daughter taught me that Alby would have something to say on the matter so I just waited patiently, sipping a ginger ale and wondering what wisdom he would share.
“Susie Q,” he turned toward me, “We all have to know what we’re good at in this world and do it as best we can. And when we’re not good at something, it’s best to accept it, embrace our shortcoming, and then HIRE SOMEONE. For money you get honey.”

“You sit Dad. I’ll change the bulb,” I said and kissed the top of his head. As I pulled away, some of his hair that had begun to fall out from the chemotherapy stuck to my lips and I wished for that one moment that it was plaster dust instead.

How to Boil Water

How to Boil Water

By the next day Alby was physically sick and his emotional state was raw. Harvey, Marcy and I got to the house and found Dad sitting in the den staring blankly at the television set.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Marcy asked.
“I feel so blue, like my soul is gone.” His voice was hushed.
None of us was used to seeing Dad like this and even when he’d feel badly about something he’d somehow manage to find some humor. Not today.
“I’ve even lost my appetite,” he said glumly. Had the sun started setting in the east? Was the sky green and the grass blue? Had the North Star headed south? Alby had no appetite; surely the universe had run amok.
Harvey, Marcy and I looked at each other and we knew what to do without exchanging a word. “Come into the kitchen,” Harvey said, taking Dad by the arm. “Let’s set things right again.”
I went to the pantry, Marcy went to the refrigerator, and Harvey got out the utensils; there was no time to lose! Working as a team we had Alby’s favorite lunch made and on the table in less than sixty seconds. We placed a hefty, delicious peanut butter and apple sandwich in front of him along with a Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry soda.
The apples were sliced as thin as deli meat from a cutting machine and were placed in layers atop the creamiest peanut butter that had been spread onto two slices of good, old-fashioned, pillowy Wonder bread. Food of the gods!
Alby stared down at his plate and we could almost smell the fire of his wit starting to rekindle. “I see I’ve taught you well,” he said as he took a small bite of the sandwich. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He took tiny bites, nursing it down and periodically wiping smudges of peanut butter from his mustache; in very little time at all the sandwich was eaten and his plate devoid of even a crumb. He washed it down with some hefty gulps of Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry soda. The magic of comfort food hadn’t failed. Alby pushed his plate away, rested his hands on his belly and said, “If I knew just how good this would taste, I’d have made the sandwich myself. You know how good I am in the kitchen, right?”
Yeah. Right.

Although Alby had always been a modern thinker, there was a part of him that was old-school to the core. His mother had spoiled him and he came to his marriage with a clear-cut view of his role within the home; he would earn the money and pay the bills but when it came to the kitchen, that was women’s territory and men didn’t belong there except to be served and to eat.
One of Alby’s favorite jokes told of a very unintelligent woman who was learning her way around a kitchen. Her husband complained that not only was there never any food in the house, there was never any ice in the freezer. His wife sadly responded that the person with the ice cube recipe had died. That was how he viewed himself in relation to a kitchen – totally useless and ignorant by choice.
Alby had no qualms about admitting the fact that he didn’t even know how to boil water so when Mom had taken ill back in the early 1960’s, it was disastrous. Mom was felled with a thyroid problem that made her very sick quickly and suddenly Dad was in charge of the meals. Although he managed not to kill any of us, it was pretty close.
When he wanted a cup of tea he had absolutely no idea how much water to boil for it. He studied the drawers of utensils and cabinets of plates, trying to remember which ones were for meat and which for dairy so he wouldn’t mess up Mom’s kosher kitchen. He tried to make ice cubes and broke every tray when lifting the silver handle that loosened the cubes from their metal prison. He threw away the remnants of a dozen eggs that were shattered from his vain attempt to crack a single one into a frying pan.
The first night Mom was out of commission, Alby made us dinner. Clad in a flowered apron that tied around his waist, he was extraordinarily proud of himself.
“I made you kids one of my favorite sandwiches. Grandma used to make this for me when I was young and I loved it. Still do,” he said as he presented us with the serving plate.
We each took one, not having the slightest idea of the culinary disaster that we were about to ingest. Each of us took a bite warily because even at that young age, we somehow knew this couldn’t be good. Simultaneously we all three spit out the bites we had taken and complained loudly.
“Gross!” Marcy yelled.
“Ugh. This is disgusting,” Harvey added.
“I want Mommy,” I cried.
For the life of him, Dad was actually surprised that we didn’t like the sandwiches. And why would we? Between two slices of rye bread were thick slices of spanish onions piled high as a deck of cards; nothing else. No meat, no cheese, no condiments. Just these big, honkin’ pieces of onion so sharp that our eyes teared just from holding the sandwich near our faces.
“You don’t like it?”
Was he kidding? I was sure we were being punished even though I didn’t know what we’d done. It HAD to be punishment – why else would he do this? That was when I discovered my beloved Daddy wasn’t perfect. I ran upstairs to my parents’ bedroom and begged Mom to get better so we wouldn’t die from malnutrition or worse, from eating onion sandwiches. Sick as she was, Mom got out of bed, put on her bathrobe and took the steps down one at a time. She wordlessly entered Her Domain as my brother, sister and I sat down at the table and waited hungrily. Of course, it never entered our minds to do it ourselves but that’s a story for another day. A stir here, a pour there, and in no time we were scarfing down mom’s noodles and pot cheese with garlic bread; manna from the heavens.
“Al,” Mom started. “Al, Al. What am I going to do with you?” She cupped his face and kissed his cheek with the unconditional understanding of a wife toward her husband. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t make any more onion sandwiches. In fact, don’t make anything at all.” She cinched the belt of her robe and went back upstairs to bed. By the grace of God who took pity on us, Mom was able to put all our meals together while she recuperated and regained her health with amazing speed. She said it was because she needed to. Alby said it was because he begged her. I think it’s because she didn’t want her children to smell like they’d just walked out of an onion field.
All I knew were the facts. Alby was the greatest father who had his faults and was a horror in the kitchen; Mom could do anything even when she was sick; and onion sandwiches were grosser than a bag of worms.