This house is falling apart bit-by-bit. I shouldn�t be surprised. The house and I both date from the 1950s and I seem to be falling apart bit-by-bit too. As with the house, a few spare parts and some work by Mr. Philately can do wonders. This time, however, he tells me that the house won�t get that work for the next five days or so. I therefore will be doing laundry by lantern.

I returned from vacation to find that the switch in the light fixture above my washer and dryer had quit. The fixture had never been pretty. It�s just a place to screw in a lightbulb. It has one of those metal pull-chains. Still, as with eldest daughters, you don�t realize how utilitarian they are until they cease to function.

I suppose that I could try replacing the fixture myself. I�m reasonably handy with tools. I use them regularly enough to finally stop a (then) three-year-old Day-Hay from asking me, �Did Daddy say you could use his tools?� At some point she simply accepted that I didn�t have to ask Daddy if I could use my tools. More precisely, she accepted that girls could own tools. Now, she�s reasonably handy herself.

But I�d really rather not deal with electricity. I throw off enough heat and light myself already. I�d hate to see where we�d be if something went wrong.

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