A Chill Morning
My nose is cold. My ears are cold. The outside temperature dropped into the thirties last night, and in an uncharacteristic display of frugality, I refused to turn on the furnace. I'm just not ready for the beginning of the season, for the first whiff of forced-air burning dust, although the smell sends me into fits of nostalgia. I suppose I could pull the covers over my head, except that the previous night's diversions - eating, drinking, flirting with waitresses and arguing politics - has left me well, let's just say I'm slightly aromatic.
The cold punches up the volume on other aromas, too. The coffee steaming in the kitchen telegraphs it's smell around the house at exactly nose level, provided the nose is at rest on an old iron bed, and is unable to pursue the coffee's promise of warmth and motivation without the help of the unwilling body to which it's attached.
My cat stares at my face sticking out of the covers and wonders, I suppose, why my arms have disappeared. He sniffs my face, we exchange morning breath, he shakes his head, jumps down and heads for his bowl, intent on stocking up on food, fearing that my aroma is an indication that my death may be at hand and he will have to fend for himself from now on.
These mornings are my father's. The house we lived in on Eleventh Street was built around the time of the First World War. Forced air heating and gravity furnaces were available but pricey. Our little rented house had a convection furnace - a yard-square grate set into the floor in what was originally the parlor, below which was an enclosed burner. Every fall Dad would, with great ceremony, rig an untwisted coat hanger with a wooden kitchen match at the end, and reach down into the furnace to light the pilot. Once successfully blessed with flame, the furnace would roar to life on demand, the blue natural gas flames visible through a small mica window in the top of the heat exchanger. The heat billowed from the grate, and by the twin miracles of convection and diffusion, warm the entire house more or less evenly.
Still, my father's mornings were chill and brisk. The thermostat said "Honeywell" on the front, but it might easily have said "Orville" instead. The thermostat was my dad's exclusive domain from sunup to taps. No mortal dare trespass and look upon the numerals engraved on the gold-painted thumbwheel, nor peer through unauthorized bifocals at the tiny red-filled thermometer on the front. To touch the thermostat was to invite disasters unknown. Seventy-two was a number of great
power. Below seventy-two lay the Land of the Chattering Teeth, above was a feverish domain of demons and certain death. I have no idea about either, really. Yea, verily, the number of the furnace shall be seventy and two, as it it is spoken, so shall it be done. The number was seventy-two. Always. Keep your mitts off the thermostat.
At night, dad set the heat back to its lowest setting, something near absolute zero, or so it seemed. It was likely closer to fifty degrees, but when my feet hit those hardwood floors in the morning, it felt as though I was walking on a Himalayan glacier. I'd put on my frozen slippers and make my way to an area rug safety island and wait for Dad to creep the thermostat setting upward until the iron monster belched to life with a satisfying, "WHUUMP". Within seconds the heat began to mushroom up around me and envelop the room. In no time, my fears of a death by freezing gave way to the soothing morning aromas of chocolate and cinnamon, toast and jelly, coffee and bacon.
Over the years, the furnace never failed. It dried boots and mittens, even my hair when it got too long to dry on its own. (The blow dryer hadn't been invented yet. Thanks for bringing that up.) My mom, long-suffering and hard-working, always had first rights to the furnace when she got home. Her chair was closest to the heat, and after a day on her feet working in a grocery store, she more than deserved the comfort. The only thing that ever came between my mom and Ed Sullivan, Red Skelton or Mitch Miller was a column of dependable warmth.
Now, I am Thermostat Rex. One morning soon, I'll break down and flip the switch that brings our modern, energy-efficient furnace to life. In the distal corner of the basement, I'll hear a slight "fffmmp" as the gas ignites and moments later, smell the summer's accumulation of dust being cooked off the top of the heat exchanger. If I close my eyes and lose myself in it for just a few seconds, it smells of chocolate and cinnamon, toast and jelly, coffee and bacon.
The cold punches up the volume on other aromas, too. The coffee steaming in the kitchen telegraphs it's smell around the house at exactly nose level, provided the nose is at rest on an old iron bed, and is unable to pursue the coffee's promise of warmth and motivation without the help of the unwilling body to which it's attached.
My cat stares at my face sticking out of the covers and wonders, I suppose, why my arms have disappeared. He sniffs my face, we exchange morning breath, he shakes his head, jumps down and heads for his bowl, intent on stocking up on food, fearing that my aroma is an indication that my death may be at hand and he will have to fend for himself from now on.
These mornings are my father's. The house we lived in on Eleventh Street was built around the time of the First World War. Forced air heating and gravity furnaces were available but pricey. Our little rented house had a convection furnace - a yard-square grate set into the floor in what was originally the parlor, below which was an enclosed burner. Every fall Dad would, with great ceremony, rig an untwisted coat hanger with a wooden kitchen match at the end, and reach down into the furnace to light the pilot. Once successfully blessed with flame, the furnace would roar to life on demand, the blue natural gas flames visible through a small mica window in the top of the heat exchanger. The heat billowed from the grate, and by the twin miracles of convection and diffusion, warm the entire house more or less evenly.
Still, my father's mornings were chill and brisk. The thermostat said "Honeywell" on the front, but it might easily have said "Orville" instead. The thermostat was my dad's exclusive domain from sunup to taps. No mortal dare trespass and look upon the numerals engraved on the gold-painted thumbwheel, nor peer through unauthorized bifocals at the tiny red-filled thermometer on the front. To touch the thermostat was to invite disasters unknown. Seventy-two was a number of great
power. Below seventy-two lay the Land of the Chattering Teeth, above was a feverish domain of demons and certain death. I have no idea about either, really. Yea, verily, the number of the furnace shall be seventy and two, as it it is spoken, so shall it be done. The number was seventy-two. Always. Keep your mitts off the thermostat.
At night, dad set the heat back to its lowest setting, something near absolute zero, or so it seemed. It was likely closer to fifty degrees, but when my feet hit those hardwood floors in the morning, it felt as though I was walking on a Himalayan glacier. I'd put on my frozen slippers and make my way to an area rug safety island and wait for Dad to creep the thermostat setting upward until the iron monster belched to life with a satisfying, "WHUUMP". Within seconds the heat began to mushroom up around me and envelop the room. In no time, my fears of a death by freezing gave way to the soothing morning aromas of chocolate and cinnamon, toast and jelly, coffee and bacon.
Over the years, the furnace never failed. It dried boots and mittens, even my hair when it got too long to dry on its own. (The blow dryer hadn't been invented yet. Thanks for bringing that up.) My mom, long-suffering and hard-working, always had first rights to the furnace when she got home. Her chair was closest to the heat, and after a day on her feet working in a grocery store, she more than deserved the comfort. The only thing that ever came between my mom and Ed Sullivan, Red Skelton or Mitch Miller was a column of dependable warmth.
Now, I am Thermostat Rex. One morning soon, I'll break down and flip the switch that brings our modern, energy-efficient furnace to life. In the distal corner of the basement, I'll hear a slight "fffmmp" as the gas ignites and moments later, smell the summer's accumulation of dust being cooked off the top of the heat exchanger. If I close my eyes and lose myself in it for just a few seconds, it smells of chocolate and cinnamon, toast and jelly, coffee and bacon.
