I was home for Thanksgiving, back to the house that I grew up in - a veritable man-child sleeping in my old room (new bed) with my wife. Over the course of the past 5 days, my mother kept the door to the downstairs bathroom shut - it being the latest shot of botox in the house's neverending facelift. But what I found odd about the downstairs bathroom was not the stepladder in the shower, nor the presence of fresh potpourri, but rather the mystery switch (above the medicine cabinent that is behind the door) was missing its faceplate. Somehow the absence of the faceplate caught my eye more than its former apperance as the the electric equivalent of the Bat-Phone.
You see, when I was younger, this switch was very much out of my reach (that stepladder in the shower would have come in handy then). The switch was your average lightswitch, but it had a perfectly red plastic faceplate surrounding it, the color of which cried out to any little boy, "I am the color of fire engines, of meatballs, of bloody noses, of Superman's cape, and of Christmas presents! Engage me!" What did this switch do? Turn on the stove? Super-flush the toilet? Turn on the fire place? Turn back time? However, my mind was captivated only as long as I was on the downstairs can, due to a pressing schedule of catching and releasing frogs and smearing my poison ivy hands on everything else. I had the Midas Touch of itching for a while there.
The only thing I knew the switch did was perform a function my parents either supported or supported the absence of. I was always told not to mess with the switch. It was really the only part of my house that remained a mystery to me other than how my dad ever found the tools he was looking for near his "work-bench" or what is better described as his "wood/scrap/nail pile." And not being one to spoil a good mystery, I still have yet to ask what the switch does - thereby always preserving a small part of my childhood no matter how old or distant I feel. To that end, I have made a formal request to see the old red faceplate reattached upon completion of the project. I have also asked for my Superman sheets, but I think I have a better shot at the bathroom mystery switch.
I imagine some day my parents will move out of the house and I will flick the switch only to hear the water heater
ba-clunk to life, or perhaps hear nothing at all, as a small but important part of the house silently stops working or wakes up, but here's to hopingI have the discipline to not touch it all.
