Blowing a Fuse

July 30, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Does anyone say “blew a fuse” anymore, either referring to an electric control box or losing one’s temper? Probably not. Well, except for me, and even my use isn’t strictly accurate.

Last night, I flipped a light switch. The bulb went out in a flash and blew a fuse. Or tripped a switch. Or broke the circuit. Or did whatever things do nowadays to make the electricity not work.

I checked the erstwhile fuse box that’s on the wall going down to the basement, but those switches still were in their proper position. It was raining heavily (yay for the rain!!), and dark, besides, so I couldn’t access the main breaker box. For some reason unknown to me (code requirement, maybe?), when the electricity in this 98-year-old house was modernized, the new main control box was set outside. The first insurance inspector I had said to put a lock on the box to prevent anyone messing with it, which I did. It only prevents casual passersby from accessing the box since a lock is so easily cut, but at least it makes me feel as if I am doing the right thing.

Since there was nothing I could do about the situation, and since I was too tired to worry, I went to sleep.

This morning, first thing, I changed the burnt-out bulb, which was no easy task. The screws holding up the globe light fixture hadn’t been touched in perhaps ten years, and I was balanced on a three-step stepstool, but I was careful and managed to get the cover off. Then I had to sort through my lightbulbs (another task that needed the stepstool) to find the proper one.

When those tasks were safely concluded, I found the keys to the control panel, went out and finally flipped the switch.

Such a simple and silly thing, and yet I feel as if I accomplished a monumental task, as if I were sorceress magically creating light, especially since I don’t remember ever having to change a lightbulb in an enclosed fixture. I must have at some point or other because it seemed familiar. But, whatever . . . now I have light!