Giving Thanks: The Preservation of Life

~

I am an unabashed skinflint. This manifests itself in many ways, from thrifting rather than buying new, to eating Theron's leftover crusts for "breakfast," then filling up at work later in the morning. Nowhere is my stingy streak more evident however, than in the climate control of the house. I was raised by a beloved Scotsman who turned the heat on at the beginning of October, and off at the end of March. During those months, the heat came on at bedtime in the evening, and at breakfast-time in the morning, even if that meant you had to sleep with your next day's clothes under the quilt so that as few bodily parts as possible would have to be exposed to the chilly air while you dressed in the still-dark hours. As for a/c? Pah, this was England. Even if we needed it, desired it, we scoffed at those who relied on it.

As such, I have a somewhat Gestapo-like approach to the climate in the house.

Too hot? Take off clothes.

Too cold? Put on more clothes.

You want the house cooled to 74 in the summer? But you want it heated to 75 in the winter. How can you possibly want to cool it chillier now than you will accept in the winter?

It's cooler outside than it is inside? Turn off the a/c and open ALL the windows.

I become visibly uncomfortable if the heat or a/c are on for what I perceive to be excessively long lengths of time, and will even sneak out of bed after everyone else to adjust the thermostat by a couple more energy-efficient degrees. "Take care of the pennies, and the pounds take care of themselves."

So it was that last night I just couldn't get comfortable in the small hours. I tossed and turned, and even while sleeping, had one ear listening to the air conditioner, which just did not seem to be turning itself off. Eventually I drifted awake to see that it was 5.15am, and to smell something that was scented oddly like popcorn. Stumbling into the front room, my first realization was that the thermostat was reading 79 degrees, hence the overactive a/c. Rubbing my eyes, I realized that the difficulty I was having seeing was not from sleepiness or a lack of spectacles, but a haze of smoky air in the room. Shocked, I looked towards our temperamental, curse-inducing old fireplace that we'd given up on making work over the winter, only to find it was blazing full bore. And positioned right in front of the fireplace's glass window was Theron's painted, wooden, caterpillar beanbag toss, where it has sat, oh, pretty much since we gave up on the fire working.

We had accidentally left the fire in the "on" position sometime in December when it had failed for the final time. And at some point last night, the fire's wires had aligned to the point where it remembered our impassioned pleas to actually work, and gaily lit itself.

By 5.20am this morning, the paint on the back of the board of Theron's beanbag toss had blistered and was smoking, and the board itself had warped from the heat, and was in fact too hot to touch (as I discovered when I yanked it away from the fire, and dropped it on the carpet.)

I sat down heavily in my chair, berating myself soundly for a) having removed our smoke alarm several years ago due to its over-enthusiastic beeping at the wrong times (such as while Theron was trying to sleep), and b) having never replaced it.

I thanked God for waking me in time to prevent the board combusting and its flames reaching our wooden mantle above the fireplace (and by default, the rest of the house). I also thanked God (and no doubt not for the last time), for the beloved Scotsman who instilled such a degree of skinflinteryness in me that I cannot sleep soundly if I feel we're being too lavish with the air conditioning.

Remove/add a layer of clothing, folks, and save some pennies! Install/check your smoke alarm and save your life!

~