The Street Lights

The power of a letter and an opinion.

The coffee maker beeped once as Eleanor reached for her favorite mug, the one with the chipped handle that fit her palm perfectly. Outside the kitchen window, the December sky was overcast over the small coastal town. She poured the coffee into the mug and gave the half and half a quick stir.

Randall came in, newspaper folded under his arm. He wore the same sweater he had owned since their youngest daughter was in elementary school. The elbows had patches on patches three times removed.

“Mail came,” he said, placing two envelopes on the table. “One looks official.”

Eleanor glanced at the thick envelope. Her name and address were typed in neat capitals. She slit it open with a knife. Inside was a single sheet from the City Council.

“They’re installing new street lights along The Boardwalk,” she said. “Energy-efficient ones. They want our opinion by the end of the month.”

Randall poured himself a cup.

“The old lights have been there since before we moved in. Forty-three years.”

“Forty-four,” Eleanor said. She put the letter down. “They cast that soft orange glow. You could read a book under them without straining.”

Randall sat across from her.

“These new ones will be white. Bright. Like daylight at midnight. They call them daylight lights. Imagine that.”

Eleanor sipped her coffee. She pictured The Boardwalk at night, the way the old lights turned the wet pavement into strips of gold. Couples still walked there, even in Winter. Teenagers leaned on the railings, talking about music and friends. The new lights would bleach all of that away.

“We should write back,” she said.

Randall raised an eyebrow.

“And say what? We’re fond of dim lighting?”

“That it matters,” Eleanor replied. “That some things are worth keeping even if they use a little more electricity.”

Randall unfolded the newspaper but didn’t open it.

“They’ll do what they want anyway. They always do.”

Eleanor looked at him over the rim of her mug.

“Maybe but don’t be so cynical. We can still tell them we noticed.”

That evening they walked to The Boardwalk after supper. The tide was out. The old lights flickered on one by one as they passed to light their path.

Randall stopped beneath the third light from the pier.

“This one buzzes,” he said. “Always has. Must be a bad filament.”

Eleanor listened. A faint, steady hum came from the fixture overhead.

“Sounds like a bee’s trapped,” she said.

They stood there a long time. A young couple passed hand in hand, giggling quietly.

Randall cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps we should mention the buzzing in our letter. It’s evidence of character.”

Eleanor smiled. “Yes. Street lights do have character.”

Two weeks later, another envelope arrived. Eleanor opened it at the same table, Randall watching from behind his newspaper.

The City Council thanked them for their feedback. After careful consideration, they had decided to keep the existing lights and simply replace the bulbs with slightly more efficient versions that preserved the original color temperature.

Eleanor read the short paragraph twice.

Randall lowered his paper.

“Well,” he said.

She folded the letter and placed it beside her mug.

“They listened.”

Randall looked out the window toward the sea in the distance.

“Or someone else wrote a better letter.”

Eleanor thought about this. Then she reached for the coffee pot.

“Either way,” she said. “The Boardwalk keeps its color.”

Randall watched the steam rise between them. “And the bee keeps buzzing. Hope they don’t replace that one though. Has character.”

“Yes indeed,” Eleanor said. “Street lights have character too.”