20061212
20061210
The Great Equalizer
The last week of November was 60 degrees. Mark and I rode a motorcycle back from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, it was so warm. And then, it got cold. And the wind blew. And it got even colder.
How cold? My toothpaste was so stiff I couldn't squeeze it out. Cabin temperature fell to 52 degrees. The electric heater hummed nonstop; the gas-fueled furnace still wasn't working. Are we waiting for a pump still? The last one was defective. When it comes in the mail maybe Mark will be able to fix the furnace, maybe not. In the meantime, he is putting plastic over all the windows to stop the draft. Cabin temperature rises to 55 degrees. But maybe it's all the body heat inside.
The pump comes, the furnace still doesn't work. Mark deduces through phone calls to manufacturers in Anchorage that the motherboard is broken.
The guys in Anchorage take pity on him and sell him another furnace at cost. It'll be here in a few days.
The cats sleep under the covers with us. We keep space heaters beside the bed.
Cabin temperature hovers between 52-60 degrees, when the sun is shining. Outside, it's 12 degrees; windchill is -1.
My friends are concerned - everyone in the city is cold now. "How's life on the boat?" they ask, prepared to offer their place as refuge.
My dear friend and running partner - who just bought a place in a gold coast gated community where the mayor's brother reportedly lives - has four floors and lots of windows and when I tell her the cabin temperature is 58, she says, "That's what we're keeping our place. Who would have thought they put single-plated glass in that place? Single-plated glass! It would cost a fortune to heat it. I don't even want to take a shower it's so cold."
Winter in Chicago is the great equalizer. Doesn't matter if you've got a posh place in the gold coast, a boat on the river, or a piece of cardboard under the Webster Street overpass: if you're cold, you're cold you're cold. The most any of us can hope for is a warm place to sleep tonight.
How cold? My toothpaste was so stiff I couldn't squeeze it out. Cabin temperature fell to 52 degrees. The electric heater hummed nonstop; the gas-fueled furnace still wasn't working. Are we waiting for a pump still? The last one was defective. When it comes in the mail maybe Mark will be able to fix the furnace, maybe not. In the meantime, he is putting plastic over all the windows to stop the draft. Cabin temperature rises to 55 degrees. But maybe it's all the body heat inside.
The pump comes, the furnace still doesn't work. Mark deduces through phone calls to manufacturers in Anchorage that the motherboard is broken.
The guys in Anchorage take pity on him and sell him another furnace at cost. It'll be here in a few days.
The cats sleep under the covers with us. We keep space heaters beside the bed.
Cabin temperature hovers between 52-60 degrees, when the sun is shining. Outside, it's 12 degrees; windchill is -1.
My friends are concerned - everyone in the city is cold now. "How's life on the boat?" they ask, prepared to offer their place as refuge.
My dear friend and running partner - who just bought a place in a gold coast gated community where the mayor's brother reportedly lives - has four floors and lots of windows and when I tell her the cabin temperature is 58, she says, "That's what we're keeping our place. Who would have thought they put single-plated glass in that place? Single-plated glass! It would cost a fortune to heat it. I don't even want to take a shower it's so cold."
Winter in Chicago is the great equalizer. Doesn't matter if you've got a posh place in the gold coast, a boat on the river, or a piece of cardboard under the Webster Street overpass: if you're cold, you're cold you're cold. The most any of us can hope for is a warm place to sleep tonight.
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