Old Geezers and Lightbulbs

Old Geezers and Lightbulbs

By

C J Maust

Aging is challenging, yet, in retrospect, perspective is the key. This is one of the funniest things I’ve witnessed lately. One section of our kitchen's fluorescent lights went out. A few years ago, it was no problem for my husband to bring in the ten-foot ladder, climb up, remove the cover and burned- out bulbs, install new bulbs, replace the cover, and we would have light.

It’s a different story now. This time, it took him three days to acknowledge my statement that the kitchen was too dark. Another two days passed before I mentioned it again. “I’ll have to get someone to help me. I don’t think I can do it by myself anymore,” he said. “Besides, those bulbs were supposed to last ten years. What poppycock!”

“I understand,” I replied. Two days later, his beer buddy stopped by, and after partaking in a few cold ones, he approached the subject with LeRoy.

“Hey Buddy, I’ve got some lights out in the kitchen. Can you give me a hand changing them out since you’re younger and more spry?”

“Sure, no problem. Let me check my schedule when I get home, and we’ll decide on a time.” They sat for two hours discussing how easy it would be, as I wondered why they didn’t do it then and get it over with. When I asked the question, LeRoy looked as if he was reading a teleprompter and answered.

“I have to make certain I can single-handedly successfully upgrade and deploy the new environmental illumination system without any safety incidents or cost overruns.”

This man is not educated, and I had never heard anything that eloquent come out of his mouth. I should have known this was a story in the making. How he came up with an excuse that left me speechless is still a mystery. That wasn’t the LeRoy I’d known for fifteen years. In my mind, this shouldn’t be any more difficult for two grown men than for me doing a load of laundry.

Two days later, the beer buddy calls and says, “My schedule is clear for a while. I’ll come over and change those bulbs for you.”

“Great LeRoy! See you in a few.”

Being the perfect host, my husband brought out the good bourbon and poured a couple of inches over ice. They sat swirling the barrel-aged amber while discussing the project. I would have suggested doing the project and then offering the bourbon, but this, no doubt, would make this more interesting. After finishing their first round of drinks, they headed to the garage to get the ten-foot ladder, but not before they both needed to use the bathroom. It’s an Old Geezer thing.

Outside of the garage, standing out of sight, I listened to the conversation about which ladder to use. “Help me grab the big ladder, LeRoy.”

“Nah, we don’t need the big one. Let’s use the eight-foot ladder. I’m much taller than you.”

“I always use the ten-footer since we have to work around the island; besides, it’s more stable.”

“I’ll show you how it’s done, pops. Grab the end of the eight- foot,” LeRoy insisted.

Navigating through the garage, narrowly missing the cars, the ladder was in place. Now to find the fluorescent bulbs. Going back to the garage, my husband was mumbling, “I have four boxes, but I’m not sure which ones are the right color. If I put the wrong color in, my wife will get a headache. We may have to test some.” Bless his heart.

They brought two boxes of bulbs in and tried to determine which ones were the correct color. The neighbor wobbled a bit as he walked toward the ladder. He giggled. The bourbon was doing its job. I gasped. He shakily climbed the ladder to the top but couldn’t reach the fixtures. He also noted he had never done anything like this before. This was like watching a TV sitcom.

“I tried to tell you, LeRoy, we need the bigger ladder”. The “I told you so” remark hung in the air like a bad fart as LeRoy remained silent. They folded up the ladder, took it to the garage, got the ten-foot ladder, and set it up.

One of them suggested having another ‘small snort’ to steady their nerves before doing the job. Another two inches in each glass should do it. Their voices became louder, and their speech was slightly slurred, but they were happy, looking forward to finishing the job. A half hour later, they both had to use the bathroom again. Now they were ready to change the bulbs.

LeRoy ascended the ladder, reaching the top. “How do I get this cover off?”

“You have to be careful. It’s fragile, so if you twist it, it will break. Carefully angle it and ease it out of the opening.”

CRACK! I think he didn’t ease it enough. After removing the fragments, they sat for one more drink to console themselves, and both fell asleep in front of the TV. Now I had an even bigger situation: a dark kitchen, a ten-foot ladder, and two old geezers disturbing my thoughts. I'm not a young woman and was hesitant to try to do the job alone. I hated to admit that my days of climbing ladders were probably behind me. Though I've always been a dreamer and an 'I will do anything once and twice if I like it' kind of girl, too many of my lady friends had told me horror stories of broken hips trying to prove a point. Pain is not one of my favorite feelings, so I had to make a realistic decision.

I texted my granddaughter, who lives close by. We changed the burned-out bulbs, replaced the cover, and took the ladder to the garage. We completed the job perfectly, only being interrupted by the old geezers who snored at a near-deafening rate on the sofa, and when we finished, our margaritas were delicious!