To paraphrase the late Victor von Frankenstein, “LIGHT! LIGHT! GIVE MY CREATION . . . . LIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!”
About 6:30 this morning I realized that I couldn’t pretend any longer that I’d go back to sleep and should just get up. Fifteen minutes later, as I was approaching the coffee maker to make the coffee, my phone started vibrating. It was the contractor. “Can the electrician come and work over there today?” When I’d asked yesterday, he assured me no one would be back until Monday. “Absolutely!” I replied. “That’s perfect!” ‘Cause, let’s get this thing done!
By 8 AM the nice electrician was all set up and starting to install lightswitches and outlets, and by 2:30 he was packing up to leave for the weekend. Now, finalmente, a moment I have long awaited: installation of ceiling fixtures.
As mentioned in the early days of this renovation, I had never liked the ceiling fan that came with the place, and over the last few years it had started wobbling dangerously on all but one setting. The new fan has a contained light, shorter but thicker blades, and a nice mid-century sleekness to it.
In the pantry, I had long dreamed of a Moravian star lantern. Long ago this year - so long ago that it might even have been before the coronavirus pandemic quarantine started in March - I ordered this (and the fan) from ye Ymyzonne*. Patiently they have waited in the cellar, like tulip bulbs waiting to be planted and blossom. And now at last, their time has come!
One more Moravian star waits to begin shining its light, this one in the hallway. The electrician had to abandon it because some elderly wiring needs to be replaced, a prudent delay.
No one will be working here on Sunday, but Monday I expect big doings with the installation of the appliances.
A dimmer switch for the lights! And an incomprehensible remote for the ceiling fan.
*I have been made aware that my disguising of the names of businesses or other entities to keep from having this personal blog pop up in internet searches is both annoying and lacking in clarity. To which I can only reply with the deathless words of William Hurt in The Big Chill, who so memorably said “Sometimes . . . you just have to let Art wash over you.”