Snow Before Heat

...and a plumber in a tutu

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From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newsletter (December 1985)

Sooner or later we stop describing the weather as brisk and come right out with it. We say it’s cold. And I roll out the story, now legendary, of how central heating came to this old farmhouse, back in the winter of 1972. Because my tale is merely a mood piece, it lacks the significance of a classic Christmas story. But it may have the makings of a winter ballet, except that the concept of a plumber in toe shoes might be a tough one to put across.

Anyway, getting the place heated was the first order of business when we moved in, in late fall. Coldest fall on record, they said, and we agreed. We hired a plumber and pitched camp next to the antique woodburning stove in the dining room, to wait out the installation of the system.

The sky was dark, draped with a gray foreboding, the day Plumber John reported for duty with his helper (a son of Beelzebub, John called him, for his frizzy black hair and brooding countenance). The smell of snow was in the air. We must have heat fast, we told them, as if we thought we’d be frozen in our tracks if the heating system didn’t get in before the first snow fell. John was casual. He would drill holes, bang pipes, then take off for home at the sound of the noon whistle, for dinner. Sometimes, he wouldn’t return until the next day.

As exasperated as I was about John’s apparent disregard for the urgency of our situation, I was charmed by the way he would hum along with the strains of classical music playing on the FM radio. One day he brought us plump carrots from his root cellar; the next day his wife sent homemade pickles. I kept forgetting how mad I was.

Our dog and our daughter, if asked, would be happy to furnish our plumber with character references. Day after day, eight-year-old Amie would send notes to the red-suspendered troll in the cellar on a string she lowered through cracks between floorboards and John would tie a reply to the dangling cord. Jack the dog, a setter with chronic wanderlust, always took advantage of John’s chronic failure to latch the back door. Let loose on the landscape, his long fur waving black across a field now frosted with snow, Jack was a Christmas card in motion.

Because it finally did snow, before we got our heat. While a hundred joints cried out to be soldered and a hundred holes to be drilled, a million snowflakes made a silent statement to the effect that weather, along with time and tide, waited for no man, not even the plumber.

With snow came the realization that worrying about heat was pointless. I quit being impressed by the white clouds our breath made indoors. And I began to wonder: What will happen to us when John’s work is done? Will we be able to manage without the pitter-patter of his stocking feet, the humming of Brahms and Beethoven?

Somehow he finished, and somehow I let him go. It doesn’t matter that our first winter with central heat turned out to be our last with central heat, that the oil crisis of 1973 inspired us latter-day pioneers to turn off the oil burner and not just turn down the thermostat, so that we lived happily ever after, heated solely by the three woodstoves the builders of our house must have had in mind when they put up the three chimneys, in the mid-1800’s.

I suppose it doesn’t matter either that my story is too wispy to be set to music and dance like, say, The Nutcracker, to be performed on stages all over the world. It’s enough that I alone can thoroughly enjoy recalling those old, cold days with that incomparable cast of characters: the son of Beelzebub in the dirt cellar, a kneeling child with her nose to the floor, a runaway dog in a snowstorm.

But that plumber…I always picture that plumber in a tutu.

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illustration by my mom, Karyl Bannister

Amie’s Headnotes

I vividly recall everything about this childhood story: the noon whistle that went off at the island firehouse every day, signifying the noon meal we New Englanders call “dinner” (the evening meal being “supper”). Our old woodstove in the dining room where we baked breads and cookies and warmed a brick each night to tuck beneath the covers of my trundle bed and keep my little feet warm that cold house. The ancient transistor radio that still functions, although nowadays you’re more likely to hear classic rock than classical music.

The recipe I had originally planned for this issue is a classic, too—a make-ahead scrambled egg casserole perfect for popping in the oven Christmas morning after a night of chillin’ in the fridge. Alas, it mysteriously vanished from my recipe binder. In a stroke of Christmas magic worthy of a Hallmark movie, or maybe because her recipe stash rivals the Library of Congress in sheer volume, I called upon former roomie and second-generation subscriber, Cindy L. She had the recipe, of course she had it. We had a good laugh at the first ingredient listed: “quality” white bread. These days bread’s running about $150 a loaf. Save your hard-earned dough. Use the cheap stuff.

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YearEndNotes

To celebrate the last week of the year, what

Beth Kempton

calls “The Hush” in her Calm Christmas guidebook, I invite you to fill your home with warm and inviting aromas by making a simmer pot. Simply fill a crockpot with water and add fragrant ingredients like cinnamon sticks, cranberries, oranges, and rosemary. Bring the water to a boil, then let it simmer on low for 2-3 hours.

What Readers are Saying About Cook & Tell:

Your mom's illustrations are always a delight. It's wonderful that you have found a way to "collaborate" with her. I can only imagine that she would be deeply touched.

Vicki Smith

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Bringing light and love to the dark days of winter,

Amie & Karyl

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