Baby, It’s Cold Outside (And Sometimes Inside, Too!)

I’ve probably said this before, and I am sure that I will say it again–but I live in an old house. 109 years old, to be exact. I am happy to say that it has all the charm of an old house–interesting wood work, wood floors, high ceilings, big, bright windows.

Or, in other words, wood floors (with no insulation), high (energy sucking) ceilings), big bright (so drafty they rattle in the wind) windows. And let’s not forget about archaic appliances. I mean so old that professionals are at a loss for how to get parts for them.

You get the picture.

I should not have bought this house. But I was 30 and unmarried, and I decided that I needed to do something that said I was going to live my life and quit waiting for a man (he came the next year–and has never quite forgiven me for this house). So I bought this house and very conscientiously avoided asking anyone–even my dad who knows about houses–for help. I mean, all the signs were there–it had charm! it was in the neighborhood where I was happily renting! it had a fig tree and muscadine vine! And I do love this house, regardless of any of the issues that we have had with it.

The worst thing about this house? The heat. I became the owner of not one but two fuel-oil-burning furnaces (the house had at one time been converted to a duplex–it had the remnants of a second kitchen too!). Those furnaces were so old that the home inspector had no real idea of their true age. The ducts were equally out of date. But I had already put all of the money I didn’t have into buying the house, so I just had to live with them–and learn all about how expensive fuel oil was, and how the price could fluctuate (wildly!). Those things burned dirty, and there was no efficiency. I routinely lived at 45 degrees–thank heavens for the old black dog! Her body heat made it bearable. After the Mr. and I married, nothing changed except who was keeping me warm at night. When the heat would kick on, I would wake in a panic–I could literally envision dollar signs rolling on the meter. Did I mention how expensive the oil was?

And then the furnaces blew. Almost literally. Some important piece in each of the furnaces cracked within a few days of each other. The repairmen who came told us that we were very lucky–our house could have filled with carbon monoxide, and the equipment could have easily exploded. He didn’t even take into account the fact that I was pregnant and our child could have been affected by the fumes (he wasn’t). We were very lucky.

We spent three weeks arguing with our home warranty company about the how much they would pay to deal with this problem (those furnaces were the whole reason I even had the warranty); this was three weeks without heat–in January and February. That was a whole new kind of cold. But the amount of money in question was too big to quit fighting (although eventually we did).

And then we had heat. New furnaces. New ducts. Almost like a whole new life.

Now when it is cold, I don’t wake up in a panic about whether or not the tanks will run dry. I wake up and think how grateful I am to have efficient heat.

This new life is still a pretty cold one (remember those ceilings and those windows?), but at least it’s warm enough to bear it.

The Old Black Dog

Fourteenth birthdays are generally not considered to be a big deal; they don’t mark the beginning of our teenage years or our entrance into “adulthood.” But this all changes when we start talking about the birthday of an old black lab. And today, my old black lab turns fourteen.

This birthday is harder than her others, although I have been achingly aware of her mortality for several years now. Labs simply–statistically–do not live into their teenage years. And now we have hit fourteen.

She was a gift to me when she was two years old. I was in my first semester of my new position, and, while I was adjusting well, I was still a little lonely. Dosi was never supposed to be a pet; she was supposed to go into service for Canine Companions for Independence (check out the organization at http://www.cci.org). Unfortunately, a predisposition to hip dysplasia (that has never manifested itself) resulted in her removal from the program, and she ended up with me through the generosity of my aunt and uncle who were her puppy trainers.

She is a special dog, and not in the way that every precious dog is special. She has a truly superlative gentleness and quietness  to her. I used to feel some guilt that she came to me rather than going into service. But I have gotten over this. I know that she ended up serving exactly where she needed to serve. For a long time, she was my constant companion. If I ran errands, she rode with me as long as the temperature was cool enough for her to wait in the car. She walked miles and miles with me. She curled up with me and kept me warm when I was foolish enough to buy an old house that I couldn’t afford to heat properly. She soaked up my tears in that terrible, lonely winter before I met my great love.

And she has adapted. When my husband came into my life, there were miles and miles of travel–not to mention that beagle who came to rule our roost. When we got married, she got kicked out of the bed. The beagle bossed his way to alpha dog. Then came the cats. Then the foster dog. Then the baby, who seems to think that she is a horse–and she lets him crawl all over her without complaint. Through all of this, as her position in our house has shifted over and over again, she has remained that faithful companion with those big, understanding eyes and those velvety ears that can calm almost any anxiety.

Three times I have thought that I was going to lose her. The first, my roommate at the time let her out to go to the bathroom and did not stay with her. I have rarely felt the kind of fear that I felt as I sped home that day, fearing that I would see her on the side of the road. When my roommate opened the front door and my sweet dog walked out, I collapsed on the porch in relief–and this is not hyperbole. The second time, she developed a mysterious illness, then just as quickly snapped out of it right before we started to do all kinds of scary tests; we still don’t know what was wrong. Then, six weeks ago, we found a nasty growth on her toe. A month ago, her toe was amputated to get rid of the cancer that had eaten the bone of her toe and swollen it to the point of constant pain. I had the scary conversations with the vet about putting a dog of her age under anesthesia. I was sick with worry, but I had no choice. She couldn’t live with that growth, and it was growing fast. But true to everything we have ever seen from her, she popped right back from the operation like she was a young pup.

And now we are at fourteen.

This number looms large partly because I have watched other beloved labs leave us at this time; I have watched two dear friends each mourn their treasured companions during this year of their lives.

But for now, I still have my sweet friend with her sweet grey muzzle. She cannot hear so well anymore, and the steps give her some trouble, but she’s doing pretty well. And I am so grateful.

Happy birthday, old girl. Give us another great year.

Facing the Dark

Today is January 11, and my Christmas garland on my front porch is still up. I say this with some embarrassment, since I do think that all Christmas decorations should come down by Epiphany. Generally, I am conscientious about this. And, in my defense, all of the decorations inside my home were down and stashed by this self-set deadline. But the garland is still up.

No one likes to undo Christmas. Putting the decorations out is generally fun and exciting. It marks a season filled with expectation and excitement–not to mention that they are pretty and bring some gloss to our mundane lives. Taking them down is a chore; it’s something that has to be done rather than something that we want to do. But I find that I am generally ready to have things back to normal and to start the new year fresh with things in their places.

The garland on the porch is a whole different issue. Yes, taking it down is also a chore, but since it just gets rolled up and tossed it the attic, it is a pretty minor one. My issue with the garland is entirely emotional. That garland is one of my favorite things about our Christmas decorations. On an incredibly superficial level, it takes my somewhat ramshackle house into a less-noticeable ramshackle state. It’s gentle sweep and white lights make me feel that my house is the prettiest one on the street. No one can see that the paint is peeling when the garland is up, and the pretty red bows hold the eyes of those who pass so they do not focus on the crumbling shutters. But on a deeper level, those lights touch me in a way that I have difficulty describing. Those little white lights bring a sense of joy and comfort to me–they are an antidote to the darkness and the cold; they provide an antidote the stresses of daily life that only expand as we struggle to get through the end of the semester.

And then the lights must come down. We have to return to a darker dark and a colder cold. This makes me sad. As long as my garland is up, I feel like I can hold on to a sense of wonder and magic just a little longer. Of course, little white lights should not be the source of these things–but they do help.

I have a pass just a little longer before the garland must come down. Today’s pouring rain means I cannot get it down and put it into storage. This gray day needs those little lights. So do I.

I bet tomorrow they come down, and I will have to face the dark. But I will continue to see them in my mind’s eye, and hang on to the little bit of grace that I feel they give to me.