LIGHTS
OUT FOR THE CAMERONS
Copyright 2000 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com
The Cameron children are the sort of kids
who really light up a room, and then are content to leave it lit until all the electricity
in the country has flowed through our circuits and out into the night. I'm developing
carpal tunnel syndrome from the repetitive motion of turning off the lights after them,
and can't understand how they could possibly fail to notice a blazing light bulb, for
crying out loud. When I walk into the house in the evenings, every single room is as
brilliantly lit as a hospital operating theater. The little wheel that measures the
electricity sluicing through my home spins inside its glass case like a CD player, and no
one can walk within 100 feet of my yard without casting a shadow. It looks like the grand
opening of a sporting goods store.
My teenagers are the worst. Not only do
they require every bulb to be lit, but they can often be found in front of the television,
the phone to their ears, the stereo blaring in the background. "I'm doing
homework," they'll protest when I ask them to choose between one of the appliances.
They use this as their universal alibi for everything. If I were to catch them in the
middle of an armed robbery, I'm sure they would claim it was for a school assignment.
I've tried to explain to my family that as
responsible Americans, we all need to preserve precious natural resources like the W.
Bruce Cameron bank account. "I have no desire to have the nation's next nuclear
reactor named after me," I advise them, but they don't seem to get it. It makes me
wonder whether the power company isn't paying them off after school.
Let's be reasonable. The furniture hasn't
moved. There are no falling objects in the living room. We don't need to turn on the
lights unless there is something special we want to look at.
"But we have to do our homework!"
my children protest.
"Remember Abe Lincoln?" I
challenge them.
"No," they respond, "We
don't remember Abe Lincoln because you won't let us turn on the lights so we can
study."
"Very funny. Abe Lincoln never had
electric lights. He studied in front of a fireplace, doing math by writing numbers on a
shovel."
"You mean his teachers let him turn in
homework written on a SHOVEL?" My son laughs, delighted.
"Also," I recall from some book I
read once, "he held his brother up to the ceiling to make footprints or
something."
"What was that, gym class?"
"The point is, we have to reduce our
use of electricity."
"Which is why your father is giving up
watching sports on the television," my wife chimes in.
I give her a stern look. "Let's stay
focused on what we're interested in, which is what I'm saying," I admonish her. It is
a primary tenet of good parenting that parents should be unified when it comes to matters
of my policy.
"Also, whenever the thermostat is set
above hypothermia, we have to turn it down," she cautions. "And children, you
will all need to learn Braille so you'll be able to read in the dark. Showers will be
limited to seven seconds--if you can't wash your hair in that time, there's always the
hose." She smiles sweetly at me. "Oh, and I'm going to the store tomorrow--tell
me how much homework you have so I'll know how many garden tools to pick up."
"Instead of listening to music on the
stereo, we should all just sing!" my son suggests.
"There's no sense in using the
telephone when you can shout," my daughter affirms.
"Flushing toilets more than once a
month is an extravagance!" they hoot. "Never open the refrigerator! Doing
laundry is communist!"
Well, there's no point trying to reason
with them--they're laughing too hard to pay attention. "As soon as you're finished
I'll begin passing out punishments," I state menacingly.
"What are you going to do, make us sit
in the dark?" my daughter shrieks, holding her sides.
Half an hour later, when I stroll in to
check on the thermostat and turn off a few of the lights, they're still laughing.
 
|
