The light bulb in our "reading room" died. Our new house has high ceilings, so Rich goes to the shed, retrieves the ladder, climbs. For his six-feet-plus height, this is an easy reach. Except he can't lift his right arm. So he unscrews the square glass cover with his left arm, hands it off to me, and removes two bulbs.
Carrying a fresh pair of sixty-watters into the room, he climbs again and easily screws in the bulbs. Having washed it clean, I hand the cover up to him.
No way. You can't do this with one arm.
I try. I'm fearful of ladders, but I try. For my five-feet-five height, this isn't working. I can't go high enough.
No matter, I say. We can live with a bare bulb.
You know what, Rich says. I didn't have to remove the cover at all. I could have taken off the bulbs without doing that.
Ah, well, too late. Do you want tea?
I fill the kettle, pour milk into the mugs, and we read the newspaper and talk about a racehorse named Maimonides.
Candace
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