The icebox

I knew I was in trouble last night when I went downstairs to turn off the kitchen lights. It was too cold in the front hall, even if it was 5 degrees outside. But it was close to midnight and I didn't feel like dealing with it.

This morning, when I woke up at 7.45 and stuck my head fully out from under the two blankets, I knew. It was just a question of how bad.

47 downstairs and 50 upstairs.

Even for a Vermonter, that's cold. The cats were cold, too, sitting there glaring at me with all their fur stuck out for extra warmth. It was a three-cat night because they wanted my body heat and, in my sleep, I was glad for theirs.

So mid-morning, Young Guy decided to join me where he thought it might be warmer. What you can't tell is that I had on a turtleneck, two wool sweaters and a wool vest and then wrapped myself up in a nice puff. That purple thing that makes me look like a mummy is a small quilt throw that comes in handy.

The furnace shut-down wasn't because the oil tank was empty, though it was close to. I missed (because I was on the phone and didn't get to talk to the repairman — I know it was because the local oil company doesn't have any women repair people) what the problem was with the furnace but eventually, about 11.00, I heard the creaking noise the radiators make when the water is coming through and for some reason, I could also smell the heat.

Even now, the house isn't totally back up to temperature though the living room (right over the furnace) is warm.

I may have to take a shower to thaw out because I am still chilled.

Even though the house isn't mine, I love it dearly but I do wish there were a stove downstairs for these moments when the furnace quits.

Small thing, however. There are people who live in the streets who have nowhere to go, nowhere to get warm. May God have mercy on them tonight as it will snow.