My husband loves his boiler. I’m sorry — you young folks don’t know that that’s what we old Midwestern chicks call our furnaces. (They work through steam — they boil water… Get it?) Alright, where was I?
My husband loves his boiler. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t understand it. It doesn’t matter what instructions and tips that the installers and maintainers of it have given me throughout the years. What matters is what he knows: In winter, the boiler must be on.
He does not understand the machine, but views it as under his authority. No reference is made in the above-mentioned rule as to relative outdoor/indoor temperatures at any given time (like, say, now). No forethought given to my current cough and always-present borderline asthma. The boiler must be on. (Is it March 21 yet? No? Sorry, I’m out of luck.)
Therefore, I write to you from a place of sheer baked-ness. Please write and tell me that somewhere there is moisture in the air, and comfort in the ambience of the house.
white pebble 