I never sang for my father

And that is good -- because I do not have a voice that would enhance terms of endearment.


But I didn’t have to.


He was one of those fathers who thought the sun rose for the benefit of his two boys.  And I hope we reciprocated.  He was one of the strongest positive influences in my life.


From him I learned that failure is a possibility and should always be accepted as an opportunity to learn something new from life.  That everyone deserves an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner.  That work without joy is a form of slavery.


All of them important.  But he did not teach me how to fix things around the house.  If it had an engine, he always had the correct tool and knowledge.  But if it was in the house, we usually called my Uncle Frank.


Uncle Frank knew more about electricity than Thomas Edison.  Or so I thought.  He was brave enough to tackle switch box replacements or light fixture installations without throwing breakers.  Because he knew what to touch.  And what not to touch.


I thought of Dad and Uncle Frank recently when the light switch in my kitchen went to Reddy Kilowatt heaven (even though I have often imagine Reddy running quite a different afterlife establishment).


Those of you who do not live in Mexico probably have not encountered Mexican light switches.  That is one at the top of this post.


The toggle switch has a vague European look.  For style, I have always liked them.  The problem is inside.  The little springs and plastic that control the toggle mechanism are badly engineered.  They do not last long.  They end up on Mexican walls because they are inexpensive.


I called my land lady to check on which breakers to throw for the kitchen.  Instead, she volunteered to come over to help with the task.


I was fully prepared to replace the switch.  But, I must admit I was happy to have her show up.  I felt as if we were reenacting another episode of Uncle Frank tames the wires.


The house I am in was built by a Canadian who owned a ship yard.  Because he knew his electrical stuff, he brought down several NOB light switches to replace the Mexican switches that would inevitably die.


We found one of the imported switches, and went to work.


Whenever you open anything electrical in Mexico, you can never be certain what you will find.  But you can almost be certain what you will not find -- ground wires.


When we opened the switch, we found a wire in and a wire out – and an additional white wire.  A ground wire, it wasn’t.  And because our space was now limited with the larger switch we were about to install, we let it go free.  Until one of us said: “Could that be to the kitchen fan?”


And it was.  So, out came the switch, on went the additional wire on the hot side, and the plate was back on.

 

Well, it was almost that easy.  Of course, there was a bit of plaster to knock out.  Some suspended switch acrobatics to get the screws to hold in place without losing the switch in the old hole.  And a bit of jiggling here and jiggling there.


Uncle Frank would not have approved.  His German sense of order would have propelled him to re-plaster the hole to make a snug fit.


But some times good enough is just that.  Good enough.  And it worked.


So there you are, Dad.  One of my songs for you.


Not to mention a light switch that works through the agency of my own hands.