The guy called me yesterday and installed my new furnace today. It's not up and running yet because he needs to order a couple of parts, but he assured me he could get overnight delivery on them and finish the job tomorrow. I'm glad he decided to replace the whole furnace straight off instead of just replacing the chimney. Turned out that there was nothing wrong with the chimney anyway, so it must have been the furnace after all. It's 20 years old, which is about as long as that model usually lasts.
My first winter in Cheboygan, I was living alone in an old rented trailer in the Old Orchard trailer court. It was heated with an old fuel oil furnace, the kind with a pilot light and a minimum of electronics. That kind lasted longer, but I guess they weren't as efficient or safe.
I came home from working the midnight shift one cold morning to find that the trailer was almost as cold on the inside as the outside temp, which was around zero. I turned the thermostat up all the way but nothing happened. Then I checked the pilot light and it was out. I tried to relight it without success, so I went over to my landlord Stan, who lived right across the driveway from me, and asked him if there was some trick to it. He said that the fuel oil tank was probably empty. He had a guy who came around once a month and topped it off but, with the cold weather we had been having, it probably ran out early. Stan said he would call the guy and he should be there within a couple hours. After the oil was delivered, Stan said he would come in and light the pilot light for me, trying not to wake me up because he knew I would be tired after working midnights.
I went back to the trailer, took off my clothes, and donned a pair of long johns and my warm hunting socks. Then I crawled under a pile of blankets and coats, pulling the covers over my head. When I awoke later, I didn't know where I was at first. It was so hot and dark under there that I thought I might have died and went to Hell. Then I remembered the furnace and thought the trailer might be on fire. Turned out it was none of the above, I had just failed to turn the thermostat back down to a normal setting and Stan hadn't noticed that it was turned up all the way. I turned it right off and the trailer quickly cooled down, whereupon I put it back to its usual setting.
There was a cheap plastic clock on the cheap panel wall that separated the furnace from the kitchen, and it had melted. The numbers, the hands, and the decorative trim were all melty and droopy, just like a clock in one of those Salvador Dali paintings. Since it was Stan's clock, I offered to give it back to him, but he didn't want it because it didn't work anymore. I thought it might have some artistic value. If people will pay good money for a painting of a melted clock, I thought they might pay even more for a real melted clock, but Stan didn't think so. I kept it for a long time, but I seem to remember that I threw it away eventually. I wish I had it now because Uncle Ken, being an artist himself, might be able to appraise it's true value.
Speaking of Uncle Ken, the sparrows he is dealing with are probably English sparrows, sometimes called house sparrows. There are several other sparrow species that are commonly grouped together under the heading of song sparrows. English sparrows are ubiquitous in urban neighborhoods, but we don't see a lot of them in Beaglesonia. If you go to the front porch of one of those bungalows, they usually have two square brick pillars that support the porch roof. The capstone on the pillar is a little larger than whatever it is that sits on top of it. If you go there at night and stick your hand into the extra space above the capstone, you can often catch a sleeping sparrow. My father showed me this trick once, but I was never tempted to try it myself. The prospect of sticking my hand into a blind hole never appealed to me.
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