My lack of electrical knowledge is shocking

When youngest son Greg reported that one of his friends was going to work for Pike, my puzzled reaction was: “I didn’t know he was fond of wheelbarrows, sod, and all things greenery.”

“No Dad, not that Pike. He’s going to work for the electrical people,” Greg corrected me.

So, no dealing with Mulch and chinch bugs. Instead, the friend will be playing with enough electricity to fry him like he’s strapped into Ol’ Sparky, or whatever the electric chair was named at many prisons. He’ll be in one of those buckets attached to trucks and then hope his training taught him good from bad in terms of wires that is.

I have no idea why there are times of year when static electricity is on us like some type of plague. Touch something randomly and sparks fly from your fingertips like you’re immersed in a remake of “The Wizard of Oz” or fiddle-deep in a Charlie Daniels Band song.

With a little “pop” like that being so unnerving, a heaping helping from Zeus is unimaginable.

Skip Caray, the late Braves announcer who was so crochety he never failed to amuse, was synonymous with Georgia Power as he shilled: “Don’t step on downed power lines.” Skip found the tagline hilarious, doubtless even more mirthful after he had imbibed a few. Sure do miss Skip.

I’m pretty much all thumbs when it comes to all things electricity. I’m usually pretty good with changing a lightbulb, providing I don’t outrun my coverage and “square peg-round hole” things by doing the uber-manly gesture of using too much wattage.

Bottom line is that electricity scares the bejezus out of me. The fear is justified and stems from a past incident that culminated with me prone on the floor, foggily looking up at the ladder I’d fell (more like flown) from and, for some reason that could be written up in a medical journal, I smelled lemons.

All I had wanted to do was change a ceiling light fixture. Zeus had other ideas and even though it wasn’t a downed power line, I got zonked when I grabbed the wrong wire and as citrus smells invaded my olfactory, knew I had made a rotten choice.

Whenever there are electrical problems in the house, I take no chances after my brush with getting thunderstruck. I call an electrician and take no chances. Not only do I leave the room to let him work, I leave the house or, better yet, leave the county and hope I am rewarded with light when I return and flip the switch.

I marvel at guys who can come into a house and work some sort of magic by getting the lights back on. Me? I’m an easy mark and unscrupulous handyman’s eyes light up like a slot machine when I say: “It’s broken. Can you fix it?”

As inept as I am with repairs, it’s no wonder going to Home Depot is in no way comfortable or therapeutic. No sir, it can be as traumatizing and nauseating as flashing lights in the rear-view mirror when you’re going

80mph just for the heck of it.

I’ve been pretty fortunate with the repair folks who have helped us. There were a few occasions when I was being worked over and I played along with the charade.

It seems like any chicanery aimed towards me can be nipped in the bud.

“Let me show you how to change that light fixture. I’ll squeeze us some fresh lemonade for when you’re done.”

Mike Tasos has lived in Forsyth County for more than 30 years. He’s an American by birth and considers himself a Southerner by the grace of God. He can be reached at miketasos55@gmail.com.

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