The Green Wand of Warmth

I awoke to that warm blanket sensation where you are toasty but your face and nose are cold. The furnace had stopped doing its sole job at some point as we slumbered under quilts from grandma. I made my chilly findings clear to my husband which only prompted a response about him being perfectly fine in bed. The kids were already wearing their coats when I found them eating breakfast in the kitchen; hence, only their teachers and classmates know what fashion they sport today.

Fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit is not my ideal way to drink coffee so I troubleshoot the obvious and relay my results to the HVAC cocoon upstairs. I receive no verbal response but my wifely senses detect a possible eye roll or head shaking. I am on my own so I decide it is in the best interest of my cold toes to hunt down those slippers that have been missing since the last arctic air invaded my beautiful neighborhood.

I sat down at the kitchen table swiftly sipping my coffee before the environment turned it into one of those homemade iced latte's and I stewed. These moments of temperate reflection were not enough to keep me warm but it was sufficient to keep my mind occupied from the cold sensation my chair gifted me. The cats beginning to swarm me for warmth caused me to realize that until the striking furnace is awarded better conditions and wages that I am just going to be cold. I curse.

Finally, from the cocoon emerges a powerful beast. A beast capable of scaring the furnace into doing what it was built for. I am at the mercy of this terrifying creature that looms in the bathroom doorway and then it speaks, "You will fix it." I try to argue that I couldn't possibly begin to know how but I am interrupted. "You WILL fix it,” it states as it raises its brow, “and I'm doing this to prove a point." It then disappears behind the door with hair resembling a rooster’s comb. Suddenly it remerges to tell me to not forget my screwdriver only to slink back behind the door again.

I don my boots and coat as I mentally prepare myself for the climate. The only sounds I make are the rustling of my attire but inside I am grumbling in disbelief. You see, in order to get to the basement of my one hundred and thirty six year old house one must enter the double doors on the south side of the structure.

The cold hits me like a wall of oxygen famished ghouls. Determined, I grasp my screwdriver a little tighter and continue as my dog gallops merrily in the snow behind me. The heavy doors are laden with snow; thus, causing further aggravation by involving a physical brawl with the obstacle to my appointed foe.

Angry and cold, I open the secondary door to the basement. Alas, there it sits; my innocent metal box of non-temperatured adversary. I am unsure what techniques I have obtained in my years to spring life back into this metallic monstrosity. I realize such thoughts emanate fear from my core which will only be obvious to my opponent. I bring forth my weapon with courage, hoping this simple act will enforce the thought that I, yes I have the power to overthrow the ills of the brute before me.

I stood before the rectangular frame and the sense of despair in its rivets rush toward me like cries for relief. I silently felt pity in the presence of this wounded creature. Its cries could no longer be heard fore it had no reserves to pull from. I knew this could be a tactic, a Trojan horse ploy. I strategically laid my screwdriver down where it would be in open view. I carefully removed the panel from the metal box then gently pressed the button and listened. The whir of the draft inducer drifted through the cold basement, followed by the hiss of gases elevated from the valve, then quickly met by the heat of the igniter. The moments following happened in such a whirl of enchantment that the next thing I knew the burners were lit and the fan motor blew a glorious tropical breeze.

Maybe it was never really broken. Maybe the way in which I waved the screwdriver around the furnace to place it in that looming space before the heating slave caused contemplation. Maybe the act created some sort of sorcery within the confines of an old vault which confined such an unruly lump of metal. I just do not know but the furnace is working now so I can’t complain.