At 107, Livermore centennial lightbulb is still a real live wire

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-lightbulb5-2008may05,0,3217216,full.story

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Robert Durell / Los Angeles Times

Tom Bramell, a former Livermore fire chief, gazes reverently at the longest burning lightbulb in the world. The bulb uses four watts of power, and its carbon filament is protected by an airtight seal.

The low-watt firehouse bulb has been burning continuously since 1901. It's generated awe and respect, even among the boosters of a Texas rival.

By John M. Glionna, Los Angeles Times Staff Writer
May 5, 2008

LIVERMORE, CALIF. -- Five years after his retirement, ex-firefighter Tom Bramell still likes to visit Station No. 6 for old times' sake, whistling in amazement at all the changes -- the strange faces and slick high-tech engines.

But one thing remains exactly the same, and it's what Bramell misses the most about his firefighting days. The sturdy little object hangs from the ceiling in the firehouse's engine bay, emitting its familiar faint orange glow.

He calls it the long-lived lightbulb of Livermore.

That's actually something of an understatement.

At 107 years and counting, the low-watt wonder with the curlicue carbon filament has been named the planet's longest continuously burning bulb by both Guinness World Records and Ripley's Believe It Or Not.

As objet d'art and enduring symbol of American reliability and ingenuity, it's been lauded by senators and presidents.

It boasts a website -- www.centennialbulb.org, drawing a million hits a year -- a historical society and even a webcam that allows curious fans to check on it 24 hours a day.

The Livermore lightbulb, you see, never gets turned off, which many suspect is the secret to its longevity.

Hanging 18 feet above the floor at the end of a black cloth-covered cord, the little light with the filament the width of a No. 2 pencil lead is unprotected by any lampshade.

Firefighters won't even dust it. Touch it, jokes one captain, and "you get your fingers chopped off."

They guard their light with a surge protector and have a diesel generator and a battery as backups. To them, the bulb is the embodiment of their always-on-duty ethic.

For years, Bramell was known around the Livermore-Pleasanton Fire Department as the keeper of the bulb, the unofficial curator and caretaker who fielded queries from the public and visits from tourists. Over time, he developed a boyish wonder at its craftsmanship and spunk. From a vantage point directly beneath the bulb, Bramell says, its filament even spells the word "on."

Livermore's bulb has burned for nearly a million hours. Even now, in its old age, Bramell will stack it against any New Age fluorescent, halogen or high-pressure sodium bulb out there.

"That bulb predates the atomic bomb and the birth of the automobile," said the onetime deputy chief. "I thought that for sure it was going to go out 35 years ago, but it fooled me. It fooled everyone."

Bramell said there are numerous theories on the bulb's longevity. "Most people just consider it a freak of engineering," he said. "But I believe the bulb has stayed alive so many years because the makers gave it a perfect seal, so no air gets inside the bulb to help disintegrate the carbon filament. This bulb operates in a vacuum and it doesn't burn hot. That's the secret."

In 1901, when the tiny bulb was first screwed into place inside a so-called hose cart house, it cast its light on a simpler era.

Back then, horse-pulled carts carried water to fires. The bulb burned day and night, hanging at eye level from a 20-foot cord. Its job: to break the darkness so firefighters responding to calls wouldn't have to fumble to light the wicks of their kerosene lanterns. Manufactured by the Shelby Electric Co. of Shelby, Ohio, the bulb soon outlived its maker, which closed in 1914.

Later, in the main firehouse, it illuminated more modern rigs as horses were replaced by gas-fed engines.

It didn't always receive kid-glove treatment.

Climbing atop their engines, firefighters returning from World War II and Korea often would give the bulb a playful swat for good luck. The next generation -- the Vietnam veterans and the younger kids -- used it as a target for Nerf basketball practice.

Then, in 1972, a local reporter checked records and interviewed old-timers to trace its history. Firefighters suddenly realized they had a treasure.

"The good-luck slaps and target practice stopped," Bramell recalls. "We figured, 'Wow, maybe we should take care of this bulb.' "

The bulb was soon featured in the book "On the Road with Charles Kuralt." "In a time when gadgets are forever falling apart or burning out or breaking up, it was kind of nice spending a day watching a dusty, 71-year-old lightbulb just go on and on," the newsman wrote. "If you're ever in Livermore and need reassurance, we recommend it."

Thousands took his advice, traveling to the East Bay community of 80,000 to see the bulb and sign its guest book. "Beats Vegas!" wrote one. And another: "How many firemen does it take to change a lightbulb in Livermore? None, it never needs changing."

Bramell has heard from ministers who sermonized about the bulb's enduring reliability and residents who say they use it as a litmus test for new friends: Those who "get" the light's significance show the wisdom and good judgment for lasting ties.

"This fragile thing that wasn't meant to last has outlived the company that made it, people who first screwed it in, people who have written about it and who have kept watch over it," said Edward Meyer, vice president of exhibits and archives for Ripley Entertainment. "They made this bulb right."

Several times, the last a few years ago, Ripley's offered to buy the bulb. The city's answer is a no-brainer: "Fat chance."

In July 1976, Livermore held its collective breath when it moved the bulb a short two miles from the old Fire Department headquarters to Station No. 6. There was a police escort -- sirens blaring, lights flashing.

Most nervous was the city electrician, faced with the delicate task of actually handling the bulb. For the trip, he built a wooden bulb box lined with cotton, Bramell said.

They moved the bulb, socket and all, cutting the cord to 4 feet. At the new site, as dozens looked on, the electrician made the connection and said a prayer.

Nothing happened.

"There was a gasp," Bramell said. "Folks said, 'What on earth have we done?' Then the electrician jiggled a switch and the bulb came on. And it's stayed on ever since."

In all, the bulb was out for 22 minutes -- a short period, the Ripley's folks say, that does not mar its continuous-use record.

There are doubters who question its pedigree, competitors who wait patiently for the light to flicker and die. There's Bud Kennedy, for example, a columnist for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Before Livermore's light was documented, the Texas bulb known as the Palace Theater Light was considered the world's oldest. It even received annual birthday wishes from radio host Paul Harvey.

Then Livermore and a "smart-aleck" reporter went and ruined things, Kennedy wrote in a 2001 column. So Fort Worth residents watched and waited -- ready, as one resident said, to yell "yee-hah!" when Livermore's light went dark.

"As far as I'm concerned, those bulb brains in Livermore can take their Centennial Light and go straight to . . . " Kennedy wrote. "Wait. They're already in California."

Kennedy visited the bulb last year, planning "to kick the wall and see if I could jiggle it out of its socket."

But being in its presence softened him. "The guys there consider the bulb a point of pride, as a symbol of firefighters everywhere," he said. "Who can argue with that?"

When the bulb turned 100 in 2001, Livermore officials threw a birthday party that drew 600 celebrators, many in turn-of-the-century attire.

Now they look forward to a 200th birthday bash.

"You want that light on," said Deputy Fire Chief Jeff Zolfarelli, the new bulb keeper. "As long as it doesn't go out on your watch. Nobody wants to be onboard when that happens."

john.glionna@latimes.com

Intolerance in Indonesia

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB120880837027832281.html

OPINION

By SADANAND DHUME
FROM TODAY'S WALL STREET JOURNAL ASIA
April 22, 2008

In the global debate about the compatibility between Islam and democracy, Indonesia is often held up as an example of the possible. Ten years after General Suharto's downfall, the world's most populous Muslim country has institutionalized free elections and the peaceful transfer of power, nurtured a lively press, and rolled back a panoply of racist laws that once targeted the country's ethnic Chinese minority. But the ongoing persecution of the Ahmadiyya, a small Muslim sect founded in late 19th century India, underscores Indonesia's – and the Muslim world's – trouble guaranteeing a bedrock democratic value: freedom of conscience. Without it, the country's proud claim to be the world's third-largest democracy will remain lacking.

The most recent assault on the Ahmadiyya comes from a government body that manages to sound Orwellian and Kafkaesque at the same time – the Coordinating Board for Monitoring Mystical Beliefs in Society. Last Wednesday this august grouping recommended a ban on Ahmadiyya in Indonesia. The reason: Though Ahmadiyya Muslims revere the prophet Muhammad and follow the Quran, they also contend that their founder, Mirza Ghulam Ahmad (1835-1908), was a prophet as well. This contradicts the mainstream Islamic assertion that all divine revelation ended with Muhammad, the so-called – and it might be noted, self-proclaimed – "seal of the prophets."

Since arriving in Indonesia in the 1920s, Indonesia's tiny Ahmadiyya community, a fraction of the country's 200 million Muslims, had lived peacefully. Ahmadiyyas tend to emphasize education and reject the idea of violent jihad. But in 2005, the Council of Indonesian Ulama, a collection of powerful mullahs, dusted off an obscure 25-year-old religious ruling, or fatwa, and declared the community to be "deviant and misled." Since then mobs have sacked Ahmadiyya mosques while police stood by, local governments have flouted federal laws and imposed bans on Ahmadiyya worship, and leaders of a thuggish vigilante group, the Islamic Defenders Front, have publicly called for the sect's followers to be murdered. Through all this, President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono has dithered, preferring not to stick out his political neck for an unpopular cause.

Mr. Yudhoyono ought to know better. What's at stake is not merely the safety and well-being of a somewhat offbeat religious group but a much more fundamental question: What kind of country does Indonesia want to be? Will it be, as its founding fathers envisioned, a land where people of all faiths live as equals, or one where non-Muslims and heterodox Muslims are effectively second-class citizens? Will it be a country that respects an individual's right to worship as he pleases, or indeed not to worship at all, or one where such matters are determined by safari-suited officials and bearded clerics? Will it be ruled by the law or by the mob?

For now the signs don't augur well, for ironically the deepening of Indonesian democracy has gone hand in hand with a darkening intolerance. As the country's famously easygoing brand of folk Islam gives way to a triple-distilled orthodoxy imported from the Middle East – among the more noxious side-effects of globalization – the live-and-let-live attitude that underpinned Indonesian pluralism has come under sustained assault. In 21st century Indonesia, non-Muslims and heterodox Muslims can find themselves jailed for such medieval-sounding offenses as "being heretical," "tarnishing the purity of Arabic," or "denigrating religion." Christians often bear the brunt of these new attitudes. Christian groups estimate that 110 churches were forcibly closed between 2004 and 2007 alone, and permission to build new ones is increasingly hard to come by.

Belligerence toward religious minorities at home has gone hand in hand with a heightened sensitivity to insults, real and imagined, to Islam abroad. As though to make up for lost time, Indonesia has propelled itself to the front rows of the global culture wars between Islam and the West. During the cartoon crisis of 2006 the Danish embassy in Jakarta was among the first attacked. The following year mobs converged upon the offices of a toned down (no nudity) local edition of Playboy and forced it to relocate to the Hindu island of Bali. Earlier this month, Indonesia briefly blocked the popular video sharing website YouTube and the social networking site MySpace for allowing users to watch the movie "Fitna," Dutch Member of Parliament Geert Wilders's much-derided anti-Islam screed.

As Indonesia mulls the fate of its Ahmadiyyas, its leaders ought to draw lessons from others' mistakes. In 1974 the charismatic Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto sought to appease Pakistan's strident Islamists by declaring the Ahmadiyyas to be non-Muslims. Bhutto's placing of petty politics above principle is now generally regarded as a turning point in his country's long slide toward obscurantism and lawlessness. If this isn't enough, those perpetually exercised about guarding Islam's "image" ought to consider the irony that it is in Copenhagen, Amsterdam and Washington, rather than among their co-religionists in Karachi, Riyadh or Jakarta, that Ahmadiyya Muslims can live with dignity and practice their faith without fear.

Mr. Dhume is a fellow at the Asia Society in Washington, D.C. His book about the rise of radical Islam in Indonesia, "My Friend the Fanatic: Travels with an Indonesian Islamist," will be published by Text Publishing in Australia in May.