Every Lubbock family has one “precious object” that makes zero sense to outsiders but means everything to us. It’s usually old, a little questionable, slightly haunted, and somehow survived every move, every garage sale threat, and every “Are you SURE you want to keep that?” comment from well-meaning friends.
In my family, that object is a lamp made out of a super old rotary telephone. You know, the kind with the separate little tube you listen through and another one you talk into. (An antique candlestick phone, if we’re being fancy.) Someone (I still don’t know who) decided decades ago that it needed to become a lamp. Not a museum display. Not a quirky décor piece. A lamp.
And you know what? It slaps.
I’ve dragged that thing across the United States for absolutely no logical reason. State lines, new apartments, questionable rentals, heartbreak homes, “I swear this is my last roommate” houses, the whole dang journey. Even before my grandma passed, I was eyeballing that phone lamp like, One day, you’re coming with me, buddy. And now it sits proudly in my house, glowing like a strange beacon of family history and poor electrical decisions. (So far, it’s only shocked me twice.)…