The Globe Lamp

 

The Globe Lamp
by Dave Wright

Mother used every ounce of her fading strength to fling the antique globe lamp against the fireplace. Every resident who had been gazing at the window with the bird feeder twisted in their wheelchairs. The smell of a fresh bowel movement overpowered the background odor of Lysol spray.

The head nurse rushed into the room. “Martha, dear. What have you done now?”

Mother addressed the nurse with a blank stare.

The nurse wrapped her arm around Mother’s shoulders. “We can’t have you throwing furniture around the room. You might hurt someone…or yourself. Let’s get you back to your room.”

The nurse turned to me. “If she does this again, she won’t be able to stay at Heritage Home. We’ll have to move her to a unit designed for violent residents.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t think it will happen again.”

“What do you suppose got into her now?” the nurse asked as she guided Mother next to me and pulled a broom from a nearby closet. “I thought that lamp must have been a family heirloom. It arrived in the mail today.”

“That lamp was originally a gift from her mother-in-law,” I explained. “She first got it when Richard Nixon beat Hubert Humphrey in the race for president in 1968.”

“It was a beautiful lamp,” said the nurse. “I loved the frosted upper globe and the cut glass base.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It was a beautiful lamp, but it has a complicated history.”

“How’s that?” asked the nurse as she stooped to picked up the bigger pieces.

“You see,” I said, “my father and his family were died-in-the-wool Republicans. My mother and her family were fanatic Democrats. Holiday meals were like boxing matches. By the tenth round when desert was served, it was lucky no one had a bloody nose.”

“What does that have to do with the lamp?”

“The lamp turned into a traveling trophy. It was a gift sent to the losing party and had to be on display until the next general election.”

“We had a gift like that,” said the nurse. “It was an ugly soup tureen—bright yellow. It was given to the family who was to be the next holiday host. Whoever had the tureen was required to prepare a soup course and serve it at the family gathering.”

“Is the tradition still going on?” I asked.

“No,” said the nurse with a sigh. “I served clam chowder in it one year and everyone had to go home early with stomach cramps.” She swept up the last of the shards of glass and dumped the dustpan in a waste basket. “They accused me of leaving the soup out the night before, so I’d never have to host another family dinner.” She laughed. “That worked out well for me.”

The nurse returned the broom to its closet. “Now I understand why the lamp arrived.”

I nodded and said, “Mother must have figured out that Donald Trump had been elected president.”

“Poor dear,” said the nurse.

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