Fighting the Elements
I live in the bottom quarter of an old house. The living room overlooks the street with a bay window and then rest of the unit rambles through a couple rooms to the back at the kitchen and bathroom. It’s fair to describe it as long and skinny. Last night as I was happily putting the final
touches on a monster omelet for supper, space heating the living room in anticipation of a cinematic marathon, and enjoying some cds, all the lights went out. But only the lights. The clock on the microwave continued to cheerfully broadcast the time, but the toaster oven above it didn’t toast. The light above the stove went out, but the burners continued to sizzle my egg. The stereo and the space heater in the distant rooms stopped churning. But the outlet by my side still worked. The lights in the bathroom on the other side of the wall, however, did not. When I regained orientation and all this soaked in, it gave me the creeps. I was suddenly the helpless, frightened babysitter in countless horror flicks - the phone would ring any second, creepy voice on the other end. Or a gloved hand around my neck. I trembled to the basement and checked the fuses, they looked fine. Now I was starting to get angry at my evening plans getting so derailed. That turned into embarrassment and guilt when my friend and landlord left a dinner party to come home, a 40 minute drive, flipped a fuse and the lights went back on - I hadn’t been forceful enough with it. But I still managed to be indignant about such illogical wiring practices. Why oh why would most of the unit be on one fuse, but not the outlets in the kitchen? Sheesh.
But wait, it doesn’t end there.
Fast forward to 5:30am and I’m dreaming away facing the bay window next to my bed (bedroom is above the living room); I open my eyes to five firetrucks, silent but glorious with lights, arriving out front. It took awhile to realize it was actually the house across the street. It looked harmless, though, the very essence of a solid, winter, new england. Stoic and resolute. Yet it was quickly overtaken by teeming firefighters while I watched, wide-eyed from my pillow. This went on for hours. No visible flames, no smoke, but they came in and out of the house in full gear and carrying equipement, hoses, pieces of wall… they extended the ladder truck to the roof, chainsaw in hand, but only sniffed the chimneys. The whole time I felt more and more protective of the house itself… it looked so vulnerable, so violated. I feel very strongly about ‘home.’ I feel that all my strength comes from a solid launch and that, for me, is a comfortable and safe home. I know I’m endlessly fortunate to have always had one. The idea of my fortress being so penetrated left me with fitfull dreams.
Tags: dover, electricity, fire, fuse, home, house, new england, new hampshire, vunerable