Sweet December

November is over, but it managed one final malfeasant act. It was a prankish and quite frankly mean-spirited attack on the better-liked month of December.

The house I rent is not yet finished. The off-island carpenter employed, who we privately call "Father William" for his habit of lecturing to his captive audience, is mildly AD/HD in his work. Well, not so much the HD part. Having labored on one bit long enough to call it "progress" but not "finished," he moves his attention elsewhere (often to a cup of tea and his next bit of advice or lore). For example, only the outlets on the west side of my bedroom have been installed. On the four-plug box next to my bed he installed a single outlet and plate- there is electrical tape covering the space where the other outlet should be. When we requested an outdoor outlet to plug Christmas lights into so we could see our way into the house, he threaded an extension cord out the basement window, and rigged it to our basement lightswitch, so if we want outside lights on and the basement light off, we have to unscrew the bulb.

Speaking of electrical work-

On the last night of November, I was standing in my entry way, about to go out, when I noticed a plateless switch that sat a foot and a half higher than the other switches. I flicked it back and forth, but it didn't affect any of the lights in the immediate area. Alison, my housemate, and I shook our heads at the generally unfathomable designs and intent of our carpenter. Generally a cautious gal, I turned it to the "off" position. We headed down our three-board entry ramp, and off into the starry island night.

The next day broke cold, with a vicious wind. It screams over the thoroughfare, up the hill, battling little resistance until it grapples furiously with our windows. It was trash day. Bending into the wind, Alison and I brought out the household trash (anything plastic, or otherwise not bio-degradable/burnable) and the recycling. I got back inside in time to watch in comparative warmth while my neighbor, clad in only a nightshirt, chased after his errant garbage. It was warm indoors- but only compared to the ten degrees the wind chill offered outside. Alison and I keep the house a sixty-five, and sometimes it feels nippy in the morning. We didn't think much of it. I worked on baguettes (looking ahead to au jus sandwiches), and Alison made breakfast. We opened the first window on the advent calendar.

While we had a to-do list for the day, much of it couldn't be done until later. Settling down on the couch under a polar fleece blanket, we watched Thirteen Going on Thirty. By the time the movie was over, our noses had started to drip. While the thermostat was set to 65, the temp in the house read 55. We set out to investigate, a pair of intrepid women who had previously lived in apartments and dorms. Perhaps we had run out of gas? It would be a wonderful start to December. The tank was suspiciously hollow sounding. Merrily raiding the tools that have settled into the house like Brits in 19th century India, we grabbed a "wrenchy-thing (!)" and set about hooking up the full replacement tank. Alison, from her limited past experience, did remember that in this case it's "righty-loosey." Soon we had everything changed out, secure in the knowledge that it was right and tight- having performed the soap bubble test Father William had advised.

Having resolved the issue, we burned our paper trash, then decided to go out for a Christmas tree. It could only be more fun to do this in ridiculously cold and windy weather. We dressed for it (see photo). We went into the woods, tromped about, failed to find a fir, and brought back a likely-enough spruce, as it was only destined for the porch. Alison tossed the tree onto the decking from the front, and we started around to the side of the house to climb up ourselves. As we almost rounded the corner, the tree went flying, fully up-right, off the deck and into Alison, who let out a startled scream. Never one to miss a scream-along, I joined in. It seemed the tree was not best pleased by the recent cuts made.

After discussing how we would rig the tree to the porch, we put it in a sheltered place, and went inside. Which was still warmer than outside, but was not as warm as we had left it. Now it was hovering at 53 degrees. Phone calls were made: Father William was out of the house, but my mother had her cell phone and led me on a voice-guided exploration of the basement, where I discovered that our heat was hooked to the oil tank, not the gas tank. It seemed to be half-full, according to the gauge, but what if the gauge were inaccurate? The oil-man was out and about- I had just seen him down the street at the school. We called his wife, and just as we were explaining our situation to her we saw him pull his regular truck into his driveway (they are our other next-door-neighbors, the ones I have not seen nightshirt-clad). He was home for lunch and would check in later- the house was on his delivery list for the day.

Assured that he'd look into it, we headed out to take care of a fellow islander's dog. We hopped into the '42 army jeep that we have the use of, only to find it wasn't going to start if the weather was going to act so bitchly cold. We paused to consider our options. We could bike to the other side of the island where Lil was waiting to be let out. Or we could bike to the dock, which was much closer and downhill, and had the advantage of a lot full of vehicles with keys in the ignition. But which vehicle would we borrow? Father William had a Mazda mini-van, and auto theft would serve him right for not putting any outlets into Alison's room until two months after she moved in. But our friends Kate and Steve had a Cherokee that we were accustomed to stealing, and we are creatures of habit. It was a gorgeous day for a drive, and we enjoyed the trip to the east side of the island, played with Lil, and checked to see if the chickens had laid (which would be our bonus for letting Lil out). Much like the army jeep, the hens were not moved to productivity by the cold.

When we got back, Danny the Oil-Man/Neighbor was exiting our house. "Whelpyou'vegawtahavtankandItriedtoresetbawtitdidntdonawthinsoasI
doanknowwotsthamattahbuttheahsnoleaksoIllbebylatahtotopahoff."

We thanked him, and went inside. Our answering machine blinked with a hopeful red light. One message was from Danny, and I will abridge to "Illbeovuh." The other message was from Father William, who noted "it's not a good day to lose your heat." I called him back.

"Well, the first thing, you should check- go out to the front door, and high up to the right you'll see a switch..." I went out to the front door, stuck my head out and looked for a switch- "You'll see it, up on the right, above all the other switches." I had been cold all day, my thinking was muddled... I pulled my head back inside and looked on the walls for a switch. You can guess which switch my eyes settled on. "Is it set to on?"

"No." Alison, who had followed me and the progress of the call doubled over laughing.

"Oh, well somebody must have accidentally turned it off... I'd been meaning to put a red plate on it..."

I flipped it back on. The furnace sang out in its gentle throaty voice. The house temp was at fifty. By the time I went to bed at ten, it was creeping up toward sixty- radiant heat takes its time, especially when it's installed against the joist and isn't backed by insulation under the first floor. Happily I spent a good portion of the evening making turkey stock, which is warm work, if you stand by the stove the entire time. Today, this December the second, the house is warm, the weather is calm and clear, and I should be all set for the storm tomorrow. Of course, while I am safely out of November's reach, I am sadly still within the grasp of quirky carpentry and my own blend of bad luck and ineptitude.