The chandelier was on again, all 16 incandescent bulbs, for the third time that day. I had turned it off twice already.  And now it was blazing again.  “Alright Mom.  I give up.  I have turned the chandelier off twice today, and it’s on again.  You win.”  She looked crushed.  “I went to sit on the front porch.  I forgot to turn it off when I came back in.”  Exactly! I wanted to say.  Mom is incapable of passing a light switch without flipping it up and turning on some light or other.  Her morning pathway includes the 16-bulb chandelier, two hall ceiling lights, five table lamps, and 25 recessed bulbs.  Conversely, she seems incapable of flipping a light switch off on her return trip.  Having not said “Exactly!” but having said “You win,” I left the lights on all day, despite my acute and painful awareness of my expanding carbon footprint, which I imagined to be the size of the Great Salt Lake.  The next morning, in advance of her descending the stairs via the chair lift, I turned on the chandelier, the hall lights, the lamps, and the recessed lights.  I decided to preempt (but not disrupt) her blazing lights routine, adopting it as my own (for today, anyway), refusing to engage in a petty power struggle (for which I am partly responsible, especially the petty part).  I know I won’t be able to hold out, perhaps not even for a day, and will surreptitiously here and there follow after her, turning lights off.