Labor Day
It was going to be just a simple Labor Day afternoon job, a task that would take
an hour or so and cost nothing. Of course I would have preferred to spend Labor Day
reading or napping or even watching a game on ESPN, but my wife Cathy had wanted
me to switch an antique light fixture from the attic to our bedroom for some time. Since a
string of one hundred degree days has recently been broken, Labor Day would be a good
time to work in an airless attic.
Shut off the power. Remove a couple of screws holding the fixture to the ceiling.
Disconnect the wires. Put up a new generic fixture. And then basically reverse the
process in the bedroom. An hour at the most and Cathy would be happy. I would be
pleased with myself that I could check off a job from my to-do list. Heck, it was even a
job that I could milk for a bit of sympathy since it was a holiday. Labor Day would be a
great time.
What I had forgotten was that I live in an 80-year old house that has suffered the
handiwork of various workmen and repairmen, some of whom had strange ideas about
workmanship. What I had forgotten is that nothing in our house is square or standard
issue. What I had forgotten is that simple jobs like this make for electricians’ careers.
Since we moved into this old house a dozen years ago, Cathy has been taken with
a light fixture in our attic. I will admit the fixture is unusual. It is a floral light bulb
holder, a cluster of small roses and vines surround the bare bulb. As HGTV reminds
Cathy who reminds me such unique treasures create a unique, comfortable home. For
Cathy this fixture has become the perfect lighting accessory to grace our bedroom ceiling.
Since I knew that I would work quickly, the heat would not bother me much. I
could stand it for fifteen minutes or so. After all how long does it take to remove two
screws and undo a couple of wires? Electrical fixtures from 1920 were not wired with
wire nuts as they are today. At that time the electrician used black friction tape. The tape
of choice was a tar-like fabric, not today’s stretchy plastic. When I released the fixture
from the ceiling I was greeted by a pair of plum-sized Gordian knots. The electrician for
my house believed the more tape used the safer the connection would be. Entire rolls of
tape, with strips crossing in opposite directions, prevented any house ghoul or stray
mouse from inadvertently breaking these connections.
Since I did not wish to damage the fixture’s wire, I decided I would patiently
unwind the tape. At sometime during these decades, the tarry black tape melted into
itself. I spent my first hour of Labor Day afternoon searching for ends of the tape to
unwind. At times, I broke off small brittle chunks; at other times, I dug through the
gooey tar. After an hour, the patience that I once had for preserving the fixture’s wires
was gone. Two snips with wire cutters and the fixture was free. Employing a razor
blade, I whittled the rest of the tape away quickly. I was ready to drive to Lowe’s for a
new white ceramic lighting fixture.
The wires were too short to connect to the new fixture. I needed to cut and attach
a pair of pigtails to lengthen the power source. Then I realized that the new fixture fit
tight against the ceiling, pinching the wires. I needed to hang the light from an electrical
box. Back to Lowe’s.
Just as I was finishing, Cathy returned from a Labor Day outing and came up to
the attic to see how I was doing. My sweat-stained shirt, frown, and mumbled hostility
clued her in. “I thought it would be so easy,” she said. I did not know how to take that
phrase. Did she mean that someone with half an ounce of intelligence would have been
able to solve this problem hours ago? Did she mean that I should quit stalling and get to
work? Was she actually showing surprise that this task was so difficult? I am sure that
she meant it as surprise. Yet I was so frustrated I wanted to make her feel bad so I
muttered, “You should know by now that when you live in an old house nothing is easy.”
Labor Day plus three hours. I moved to the bedroom with fixture in hand,
convinced that this will just take a couple of minutes. When I removed the tacky, 1950
light, I noticed that it was not hung to the ceiling but attached to a recessed nine-inch by
nine-inch square metal box. The tacky light had replaced a tackier recessed light; in fact,
a burned out bulb was still in the socket of the recessed light. How could the five-inch
round fixture from the attic hang in a nine-inch square hole? The answer, of course,
would be discovered at Lowes.
The hardware pros at Lowes had several solutions—unfortunately each of their
ideas would be found in a different department. After I explained my problem to
representatives in electrical, shelving, fencing, and plumbing, I left with an 87-cent metal
strip. I was not quite home when it occurred that I had no way of attaching the strip to
the recessed box or the light fixture to the metal strip.
After turning around the car, embarrassment struck. How could any red blooded
American male walk back into Lowes and admit to these competent craftsmen that he
was a failure, a klutz who could not even hang a light. I could not. So I drove to
Westlake and a fresh start.
Cruising down the Belt, my mind focused on the square hole in my bedroom
ceiling. Then a vision appeared. A pair of ninety-degree angle irons attached to opposite
sides of the box and flush with the ceiling would work. I could retrieve the old hanger
still sitting on the attic floor to span the gap between the angle irons. It was so simple, so
masterful that I almost returned to Lowes to tell my plan to my friends there and receive a
workman’s pat on the back. But the day was growing short and I wanted to finish before
nightfall when I had to turn the power back on.
The angle irons worked; the fixture was hung. But a gapping square hole
remained. Once again to the car and back to Lowes for a plastic cover. (Maybe I could
tell a few of my friends there about my solution.) Before I got to the end of the driveway,
I stopped the car and ran back inside.
“What’s wrong?” Cathy asked. “What did you forget?”
“I want to recheck my measurement. I don’t want to have to go back to Lowes
again today.” Okay, I lied to my wife. I had forgotten to measure, but I realized it before
I got off my property.
Labor Day plus five hours. An $18 cover hid the hole. I was ready to wire the
fixture and clean up. But then I looked closely at the fixture. The wires seemed old—80-
years old. The fabric insulation had worn away in a few spots. I could hang this light
with its bare wires and spend the night staring at the ceiling, looking for a spark, a whiff a
smoke, a flame. I visualized standing on the front lawn wrapped in a Red Cross blanket
as the embers that were once my house smoldered.
I explained to Cathy why I was going back to Lowes to get a new socket. She
approved; she must have had the same vision.
The man in the electrical department did not snicker when he saw me again. He
treated me with respect and when I handed him the old socket, he treated me with awe.
“Woo-wee,” he said, “I ain’t never seen anything like this before.” I explained where it
came from and my fears. He agreed that it was unsafe. He handed me a modern socket
and told me that I made have to bend a few things to make it fit. I usually don’t like to
bend a few things on new products to make them fit, but we’re a brotherhood of
workmen now.
I did not have to bend anything. The replacement he sold me was too big to fit
into the fixture. My original has thin cardboard insulation; the new one had a thick
plastic. Perhaps I could whittle away the plastic to make it fit or saw the plastic off and
re-use the brittle cardboard. Images of flames singed my eyes. Time for a Westlake run.
“Woo-wee,” the man at Westlake exclaimed. “I ain’t never seen anything like this
before.” He too tried to sell me a new socket with the advice to bend a few things to
make it fit. I told him why that would not work. He advised me to visit an electrical
supplier; they would have what I was looking for.
Since it was early evening on Labor Day, seven hours after I began, I knew that
my job would extend to the next day.
Labor Day plus twenty-seven hours. “Woo-wee,” the man at the electrical supply
exclaimed. “I ain’t never seen anything like this before.” He too tried to sell me a new
socket with the advice to bend a few things to make it fit. I told him why that would not
work and that I had been advised to come to him for the part.
He took the socket in his skilled hands and studied it. “Well,” he said, “since they
haven’t made this socket since forever, a man might solder new wires to it and use this
old one over again.”
I nodded knowingly. “Yeah, I guess I could do that.”
I told Cathy my plan when I got home. The corners of her mouth quivered, but
she did not laugh. She asked me if I knew how to solder.
“No, but I can teach myself. I’ll need to get a soldering gun and solder and I can
practice before I try to remove the old solder and wires and attach new wires. I can do
it.”
She told me that she would look for a new light or that I could re-hang the tacky
1950 one. I said that I would hang the antique one. After all unique treasures create a
unique, comfortable home according to the decorating gurus on HGTV.
As I write, it is October first, Labor Day plus seven hundred and twenty hours.
The antique light fixture sits on a table in our living room, holding a candle. (Cathy
cannot control her decorating urges.) A square hole with a pair of capped wires remains
in my bedroom ceiling. An eighty-year old socket sits in a basket on top of my
microwave, waiting for me to learn how to solder. Cathy is saying that she will find a
new light more frequently now, but I still hear the words of my mentor, “a man might
solder new wires to it and use this old one over again.”
“Yeah, a man could do that.”
* * * * *
Six months later, after never learning how to solder and after replacing the worn
insulation with electrical tape, I re-used the 1920 socket and completed the project. The
angle irons were not as sturdy as I thought they would be and I needed to push on the
ceiling cover before the nut would catch the hanger screw, but the Labor Day afternoon
job is complete. And Cathy is happy.
Sometimes when I switch on the light, I see into the future when a husband will
take down this old fashioned light hung on angle irons inside a recessed box. “Woo-wee,”
he will exclaim to his wife, “I ain’t never seen anything like this before. I better go to
Lowes.”