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.