How many lightbulbs does it take...?
Fragile
When you write a memoir, your first draft includes material that won’t make the final cut. This is one such piece, resurrected from the pages of a very old journal (thus, first-person present tense, though the story is decades old).
A tale of marital misunderstanding
Flagstaff, Arizona, 1989
My husband has been readying the house for winter. Dressed in coveralls and a knit cap, he descends into the crawl space carrying an electric lamp tethered to a long extension cord. It’s dark and damp down there under the house where he and a friend are propping up rotting joists and installing insulation.
I’m in the laundry room loading the washing machine, so I don’t hear him yelling for me until one of the kids tugs on my pants. “Dad needs you.”
As I approach the crawl-space entry and peer into the darkness, he says, “Would you get me another light bulb?” I find a single spare in the utility room cupboard, throw away the empty box, and hand the new bulb down to him.
The next day, same thing. “Andi? Have we got any more light bulbs?”
I get one from a small lamp in the unoccupied guest room. Meanwhile, the two remaining bulbs in the overhead kitchen light have burned out, so I abduct a floor lamp from the living room and plug it in near the kitchen counter where I chop onions, garlic, and carrots for beef stew.
By the end of the week, my husband assures me they’re almost done. Good thing, because we’re almost out of light bulbs and we don’t get paid for several more days.
Tonight, after the work is finished, the friend’s gone home, and my husband has showered off the grime and sawdust, I call the kids to wash their hands for dinner as I ladle leftover stew into their bowls to cool.
Setting a steaming bowl at my husband’s place, I ask him, “Why do light bulbs burn out faster under the house?”
He looks at me, incredulous. I know that What-planet-are-you-from? face. I often say things that mystify him.
“Andi, the bulbs don’t burn out faster—they BREAK!”
For more stories from my planet, browse the archives. And if you have your own light-bulb moment to share, please do!
By the light of more than one bulb, I’m eyeball deep in writing my book proposal to send to literary agents. I’d like to say, “I finished the memoir!”—and I’ll be able to soon—but today I’m writing chapter summaries, revising the first 50 pages of the book, and reconsidering the title. I’m also thinking about my next project….
Thank you for this, Andi - I can relate. I used to sing all the time in school ... and then saw that my father was observing me from outside my bedroom window and laughing. In later years I questioned if he thought it was cute and simply did not know how to observe in a loving and supporting way (which was very true), but it was enough to damage my love of singing and my abandon to it. People often don't stop to think of the ramifications of their actions.
Andi, I like the lightbulb story. It made me laugh out loud...XOXO, YC