Somewhere back in the summer of 1998 the ceiling fan in our spare room quit working. We clicked switches, pushed, pulled, whatever you could do to a ceiling fan and, although the light still worked, the fan was gone. We just shrugged and figured we would have it fixed/replaced when we had money.

On September 7 of 1998, Labor Day, James got a call that his father was dying. He crammed clothes in a bag and headed down to Warner Robins. I worked on Tuesday, then came home to pack to go down there for the funeral. James had asked me to get something in the spare bedroom which was stored under the bed we had in there at that time. I turned on the light and bent down, then noticed a funny shadow.

The fan was working again. We joked that James' dad came by on his way to the hereafter and fixed it.

Last night when we took Ann upstairs...the fan was dead again. (It was working last Saturday when we cleaned out the closet, and during the week.) Seven years to the weekend when it started working again. I don't know if that means a thing, but the timing is just kinda odd...

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. . . . . noted and logged by Linda at 10:26:00 AM

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