Silver Lamp

Lynn Dobmeier

Don’t turn it on, my mother would always tell me whenever I reached for that silver standing floor lamp shoved in the corner of our upstairs living room. It raises our electricity bill. Like I knew anything about how electricity works – or even bills for that matter.

That silver standing floor lamp was forbidden. At the time, it was about twice my height. At the top sat a white glass dome that sheltered the light bulb. This was held up by a silver pole that I was able to wrap my fingers around. At the bottom stood a heavy square base with swirls and spirals carved into the metal. It was shoved behind a rocking chair, out of the way, in an attempt to keep me from it.

This never worked.

I would turn this lamp on a lot, despite my mother’s wishes.

I don’t know what drew me to this lamp. But, if I had to venture a guess, I would say it was the soft yellow glow it emitted when it was turned on and all the other lights were off. If I closed the curtains, it almost felt like a sun was in my living room. A new set to play with.

At the time, I was also obsessed with the Oregon Trail. I read a book that was a made-up diary about a girl's life on the trail. It was small with a hard blue cover and pages that were purposely aged to make it look authentic. I would carry this book around with me as if it was my diary.

Sometimes, when only my dad was home, he would go into the basement, leaving me upstairs by myself. When this would happen, I would push around all the living room furniture. I would string blankets across the rocking chair and the couch.

This was my wagon. And in the center of it, stood that silver lamp.

The sun.

I would grab pots and pans from the kitchen to use as my supplies for the trail. I would stack and fold blankets to soften the hard wood floor of my wagon. Working by the fire light of that lamp, I would sit and read my diary.

I was always prepared for two sounds. The garage door opening, letting me know I need to put everything back fast before my mother walked in. Or the creak of the stairs letting me know dad is coming up, in which case I would need to turn off the lamp and hide in my wagon.

Eventually, my mother was tired of getting phone calls from the library about my overdue diary. The library took back my secrets and my collection of journeys on the trail – as well as $5 from my mother.

As for the lamp, it has a new spot to call home.

Tucked away in the basement living room that is never used, behind the now creaky and broken rocker, the lamp stands. Its white glass dome, now a faded and aged yellow. No light bulb to be found. Its cord wrapped around its thin body, no outlet within reach.

Sometimes I forget about it.

But sometimes, I’ll go and turn its little switch, waiting for the sun to make itself known.