I've Seen The Lights Go Out

It is January and the New Year is upon us.  The hopes, the dreams, the resolutions…the fresh start.  But for a lot of us January consists of taking down all those Christmas lights.  Breaking them down is a lot easier than setting them up…as is the case with most things.  One of the benefits is that I don’t have to worry about electrocuting myself.  But once again this year, as I was setting up the array of lights, I had to insure their working condition.  Another season of outdoor deteriorating can cause a connection or two to not quite conduct.  And this year would test the limits.

When I was younger I had a fascination with electricity.  I not sure if every growing boy does, I just know that this one did.  Lightning intrigued me.  I would watch storms from beginning to end on my Grandfather’s enclosed porch.  There was a certain smell and a way the wind blew that you knew one was coming.  With less light pollution back then, a single flash would light up the entire landscape.  The stick shapes would appear as cracks in the purplish glass like sky.  I admired Ben Franklin.  I too wanted to fly a kite and capture the dragon.  Of course Mom would have none of that.  Seems she had her fill of me electrocuting myself…and sometimes her…the years previous.

Young children have these wonderful little bathtubs.  They stand about three feet off the ground and come with convenient waterspouts.  Most people just call them sinks.  When I was around 4, like many others, my Mom would bathe me in one of them.  Her choice was the first floor bathroom right off the hallway from the kitchen.  Above that sink was a medicine cabinet and above that a light fixture, two bulbs and a single outlet.  Now, much like the house in “A Christmas Story”, my Grandfather had a nest of plugs going into the few sockets that these older homes had.  To allow more access for the abundance of new electrical appliances, the light bulb socket adapter was created.  And my Grandfather seemed to stockpile them.  Basically, it was a light bulb socket you could plug right into the outlet.  It also came with 2 extra outlets as a bonus.  One of those wonderful doohickies was resting unplugged atop the cabinet.  My Mom had me stand so she could wash my feet, placing me eye level with the device.  I thought I would help my Grandfather out by plugging it in.  Feet in water, hand on electricity….you can see where this is going.  Before a blink of an eye, my Mom and I found ourselves halfway down the hall.  Blown backwards by the jolt, she never knew what hit us.  At least I did.  To this day I am surprised we survived.  However, I now have this innate ability to know when a lightning storm is coming.

You would think that would have done it, my relationship with electricity.  But like a jilted, or should I say jolted, lover…I kept coming back.  My Mom had this beautiful handcrafted dollhouse from her childhood.  I wish we still had it today.  It was three stories of wonderfully handcrafted wood.  It was incredibly realistic.  So realistic, the rooms where wired for lights.  But being from the late 1940’s, the wiring had deteriorated and it no longer worked.  Our neighbor had a daughter my age and we spent a lot of time together.  She was tomboyish, but she could not help her adoration for the dollhouse.  My Mom, never having a daughter, would treat her like one.  She allowed her to play with her treasured piece and enjoyed watching her.  It must have brought back so many memories.  Of course MY memory now is of me trying to impress the young lass.  If she liked the dollhouse now, she would LOVE it if the lights would work.  At 6 years old I must have thought I was in the electrician’s union.  Down to the basement I went to my Grandfather’s workshop.  All the tools and wiring I needed at my fingertips.  Only thing missing was the actual knowledge of what to do with it.  220/221, whatever it takes.  After a few days, the wiring was complete.  I just needed the right moment to show it off.  Unfortunately for me that time would come soon enough.  My Mom and our neighbor disappeared into the kitchen.  When they returned, they would see a perfectly lit up dollhouse.  Or so I thought.  I am not sure I remember plugging it in.  I do remember the loud pop.  The socket was black, the dollhouse was black…and I was black.  There was smoke everywhere.  It was reminiscent of a seen from the Little Rascals.  I recognized that familiar tingle from years earlier.  Electricity 2, Michael 0.

As I have aged, surprisingly making it this far, I have been more cognizant of the current current danger.  But it hasn’t stopped me from working with the wattage.  Each year I expand our Christmas lights a bit further.  One of the things I like to do is decorate the back yard.  With the abundance of pines, it only seemed natural.  I would have a timer to control these lights as they were a distance from the house.  This year I wanted to use a remote switch and found one that had the range needed.  It stated on the package it worked even during the rain.  I wonder if they tested it.  The remote worked perfectly until the first downpour.  The next day I went to turn on the lights.  For a moment they worked, then off they went.  Even from across the yard I could smell that familiar smell.  As Ralphie would say, “The snap of a few sparks, a quick whiff of ozone”.  I proceeded to the switch and saw the outlet on it had melted.  Luckily I had been far away.  Where were these remotes when I was a kid!  I checked the GFI outlet that the switch was plugged in to.  The piece that pops out when the outlet is tripped shot out so far, the spring catapulted it to points unknown.  It was no longer useable.  But the show must go on.  I rigged the extension cords to run all the way back to the house.  Draping them from tree to tree, fence to fence…like an electrified clothesline.  Once completed, I flipped the switch and the backyard glowed.  I was proud of my work.  Then the whole house went dark.  Seems I overloaded the fuse and fried that outlet too in the process.

The broken outlets needed to be replaced before our yard could once again gleam in all its holiday glory.

However this time I would make sure I called a real electrician.

I'm Glad You Came

I didn’t watch Cheers when it dominated primetime television for over 10 years.  It wasn’t until syndication that I spent my last half hour before bedtime with the bar-side belly laughs.  Recently I was having just “one of those” days…for no specific reason.  I happened to be driving by an old watering hole that I used to frequent once a week.  I decided to stop in.  I was pleasantly surprised to find that my bartender confidant was now the restaurant manager.  The waitress who I had gone to high school with was now the hostess.  The owner who had booked my 40^th birthday party was even there.  It would seem taking a break from all my worries sure did help a lot.

It was just short of a lifetime ago I was part of my own Cheers – South Jersey Addition.  But before that began, it was only part of the lore from my college roommate’s stories.  His tales revolved around the local watering holes that dotted his hometown landscape.  Soon I would know the names of all his childhood friends.  He would regale the dorm dwellers and frequently reiterate reruns.  It got to a point that I felt I had lived some of these stories myself.  Eventually I would become part of these tales.

The calendar had just turned to 1985. Even though spring break was still months away, a plan was needed.  My college roommate talked about a friend he knew and had worked with at McDonalds.  We heard a lot of my roommate’s McDonald stories.  A part of one story that still sticks in my mind contained a catchy phase.  While working at McDonalds one day, they had run out of french fries.  To alert the coworkers, to the Genesis tune “No Reply at All”…they belted out  “There’s No French Fries at All”.  I still sing those words when that song comes on.  Anyway, this friend had a house in Clearwater, Florida.  My college roommate said we were invited down there for Spring Break.  Plan needed, plan succeeded.  I had met our "host to be" once before but we really didn’t know each other.  Before spring break arrived, I was giving an all out one last chance effort to reunite with my High School sweetheart.  It was the kind of big time effort date that you would see on an episode of “Love Connection”.  While everything went well and according to plan…it did not change her mind…or heart.  I was not back in 2 and 2.  I finally accepted it was over.  A few days later I would be on my way to Clearwater.  I drank a little TOO much upon arrival to drown my sorrows.  I am sure it led to the host wondering whom they hell he invited to his home.  But much like March itself, I came in like a Lion and out like a Lamb.  The host forgave my early indiscretions and we soon became friends.

After college my roommate returned to his roots.  I would travel down from New York a couple of weekends a month to visit.  I easily fit in among his high school friends of those stories gone by.  It was made easier with the fact that our Clearwater host was among them.  We became creatures of habit.  We would show up at the same bars, at the same time as if we were directed by James Burrows himself.  The local friends had established themselves as regulars…and soon so would I.  Our first stop on a Saturday would be a restaurant/bar called Kaminsky’s.  I am not sure why they even used the word restaurant.  While the food was more than your average pub fair, a huge 360-degree bar dominated the building itself.  Our bar stools would be awaiting our arrival.  Before we could turn the corner to our usual spot, Chuck the bartender already had our pleasures poured.  As each of us settled into our seat, the appropriate beverage was placed before us.  As the day wore on, we would run into people we knew or befriended fellow bar patrons.  We remained there all day as others revolved around us.  I compared it to our own TV talk show.  And who’s our next guest?

This was our afternoon destination.  As evening arrived, we were usually on our way to our next stop.  Of course, there were times we altered our plans and found ourselves at Kaminksy’s for the duration.  One of the places we would go to was "The Jug Handle Inn"…or simply know as the Jug.  It was sort of a double entendre.  You have the obvious, a handle on a jug of say your finest moonshine.  However this tavern was placed upon south Jersey’s gift to the driving world. “The Jug Handle”.  When I first received directions from a south Jersey native, I was told head up the road to the first jug handle.  What?  Seems there are no left turns in south Jersey.  If you want to go left, you have to go right first.  A looping turn from the right hand lane will swing you around and head you to the left.  And it is in the shape of a jug handle…I suppose.  Don’t even get me started on traffic circles!  Anyway, while the “Jug” was not a regular stop, it was a nice change of pace.  It was a roadhouse type of establishment minus the barroom brawls.  We would find ourselves entrenched in the shuffleboard game.  It was the first time I had seen one, and I was instantly hooked.  Hey, at least we would get some sort of exercise during those days…well, besides the frequent trips to the bathroom.  Soon we would get our order of wings and these were among the best.  Now, while imbibing all day may have swayed our pallets it would be some 20 years later my taste buds accuracy was confirmed.  I was watching the Food Channel’s episode of “The Best Thing I Ever Ate”.  Aaron McCargo Jr. was coming up next, and he said he had the best place ever for wings.  Upon returning from the commercial break he announced, it was at “The Jug Handle Inn” in south Jersey.  NO WAY!  I told Christina I used to hang out there and have their wings.  Of course she just looked at me and said “Really, you hung out at a bar…shocker!”

No matter what our day entailed, there was only one place we would wind up at night.  Jay’s Elbow Room.  Time to go there was announced with a simple, “Wanna head’ up Jays?”  For my south Jersey friends each night there was a high school reunion.  And I eventually got to know all the gang too.  A large bar was set in the front of the building, and two rows of tables ran all the way to the back.  And it was always packed.  Some nights we would enter through the front.  There was an older burley gentleman who had double duty of working the door and selling “packaged” goods.  Seems Jersey bars had no problem having you buy a few 6-packs to go.  I got to know the guy at the door, and he always remembered I was from Long Island.  However, he would love to bust my balls and call me “Fire Island”.  Years before when I was first introduced to him, he said the only thing he knew about Long Island was Fire Island.  And it would also seem his views where to the right of Archie Bunker’s.  He always said he never really meant anything by it, and I was ok with that.  I was just glad he would always recognize me.  Most nights though we would just enter from the side.  We would then procure one (or more) of the tables and settle in.  Within moments the long time waitress Eleanor would drop a pitcher (or 2 or 3) of bud on our table.  How DID she know…lol?  Eleanor seemed to be out of place among the younger staff.  She was like Harry Chapin’s waitress and I was the midnight watchman down at Miller's Tool and Die.  Except I would never want to ask her to come with me.  However, she made sure our pitchers of beer arrived at our table frigid and frequent.  And that was a better place to be.

Those nights at Jay’s would be impossible to recreate now.  Times have changed and people have moved on.  But for those years there was always one place where you could find my friends and I.

And everybody knew our name.