The Lamp.

On my table there is a lamp. It was made by my grandpa over 26 years ago. I don't know what kind of wood it is made out of because it is covered in a thick coat of stain and, truth be told, even without the stain I wouldn't be able to tell you what kind of wood it was. My grandpa would be able to tell you though, but he's been dead for over 26 years. I can still picture the shed in the back yard; painted white tin with green striped trim and giant advertising signs leaning up against one side, gathering cob webs and dirt. That's where he kept the lathe that spun the wood that became the lamp. I can remember standing there as a young boy, watching as he put a chisel to the spinning wood. It was as if he had some kind of magical power, the ability to make this ordinary round log take on beautifully symmetrical shapes that nature never could. Perhaps it was because I was eye level with the wood, or maybe it was because it was MY grandpa who was creating the beautiful art from ordinary, everyday things that I felt drawn to that primitive spinning machine. After my grandma died, the lamps were distributed throughout my family. I heard that some of the lamps may have been thrown away, I hope that isn't true. Lately I've been thinking about replacing the cord on the lamp; making it safer with a ground plug. But like everything else my grandpa made, it seems to be working fine after all these years. So I will leave it as it is, making sure it is turned off when I'm not home. And when I do return home and it is dark and I cannot see, the first thing I do is reach for the lamp that is sitting on my table.