Now, what are the rules again?

I remember when I first landed here in 2005 being advised by several people who had no use for the letter “R” at the end of a word that, “You know, Nan, in New England, you don’t turn the heat on until aftah” (it was either) “Septemba” or “Octoba.”

That was nearly a fifth of a century ago and a lot has changed in the world of climate, time and the transformation of the leaves, and I suddenly can’t remember the heat rule that I definitely want to stick to, as I recognized it as a deal-breaker in the world of Yankee respect. Nineteen years later, even hard “Rs” run around as common as squirrels do in Ashfield, which makes me kind of sad, but only because I adore the lines of evolution so much. One great thing about having been born in the 1950s is you’ve got the links to the old ways.

It’s a little chilly in my house, here this morning, 58 degrees to be exact, but I don’t want to turn anything on that will create a sound or an exhaustion of smoke to make my neighbor Norm Nye, sneaking up on his 98th birthday, roll his eyes and say, “Didn’t we teach you bettah than that? You wanna run out of wood (or, in my case, oil) in Decemba?”

I just got a brand new oil tank that I’m kind of excited to use. Norm, whose family members lived in this house over a few generations, told me in 2016 that my furnace was about 60 years old. Figuring it was about time, I replaced the oil-burner, then noticed a year or so in, the freckling rust on the giant iron oil-holding tank that looked old enough to have been drug in by the founding fathers themselves. I projected waking up to a basement floor full of expensive oil, and decided it was worth the price of replacement. I called the oil company, and they brought me a new one, sucking all the precious oil out of the standing tank, cutting the ancient one up with a chainsaw to get it up and out of there, updating the rules by pouring a brand new concrete pad for the new tank to stand on and filling it with oil. And it’s money-back guaranteed for three whole years. Wait — the last one lasted…

I walked over to Norm’s house this evening to ask him about the heat rule, just to make sure I had it right. But Norm said he didn’t know, didn’t care and had had his heat on for a few days already, as needed. In fact, his house had a snuggly warmth that made me want to curl up on his couch right there and go to sleep; much nicer than my rule-bound cold home.

I came home, and then, while watching the vice presidential debate, I decided to warm up some dessert I’d had for a day or two in the refrigerator. I put it in the microwave for 30 seconds and sat back down to my computer. The bad thing about watching something that interests you is that attention to time dissipates with the arguments, and three minutes later my house roiled with smoke. I ran into the kitchen and punched off the microwave, seeing on the little screen there that it still had 27 minutes to go. See? That’s what happens when you set a timer in the dark; I’d set it at 30 minutes instead of seconds. I was thankful that I had only been watching the debate in the next room and hadn’t gone out shopping, taken a shower or anything else.

The microwave and my food were destroyed, but my house still stands, and the only scary evidence of my negligence is the dark brown spot I found on the wall behind the microwave when I pulled the now-defunct thing out to haul it to the dump. Happily, all I had to alert me was smoke. Had I gone upstairs, or even carried on with other chores while the eventual flames raged for 27 more minutes, I wouldn’t have had to worry about oil, wood, October or even November, as I’d have burnt my house down and would be living with the neighbors by now, if they’d even let me in after my mindless stupidity. But they’re all from here (or shall I say “heah), so I reckon they know when to turn on the heat and don’t need me to help them out on that.