That first winter, Dale and I wore stocking caps to bed.
I’m not exaggerating. The old oil furnace ran day and night, and the upstairs never got warmer than fifty-five degrees. The wind came right through the north windows. You could see the curtains move when it blew.
So we closed off all three upstairs bedrooms with old blankets nailed over the doorways, and we lived downstairs like a couple of old bachelors. We slept on a mattress in the front room by the register.
In 2009, an electrician from Sheldon came out to look at a light switch in the kitchen that buzzed when you flipped it.
He went down to the basement with his flashlight. He looked up at the ceiling.
And he came back up those stairs white as flour.
“You’ve got knob-and-tube wiring down there,” he said. “From about 1930. And somebody spliced into it with lamp cord. Lamp cord. I wouldn’t sleep in this house tonight, ma’am.”
We slept at Dale’s folks’ that night.
Rewiring the whole house cost us eleven thousand, five hundred dollars. We took out a home equity loan at the bank in town and paid it off over five years.
In 2011, a hailstorm took the roof. Hail the size of golf balls. It came through on a Sunday afternoon in June and sounded like a freight train on the shingles.
Insurance covered part of it. We paid fourteen thousand dollars out of our own pocket for a brand-new roof, decking and all. The old boards underneath were rotten clear through. The roofer put his boot right through one.
In 2014, the old oil furnace died for good. On the coldest night of January. Twenty-six below, with the wind chill.
We put in a propane furnace and all new ductwork. Seven thousand, eight hundred dollars.
Dale says it’s the best money he ever spent. He says it every single winter. Every time it kicks on, he pats the wall in the hallway.
Then came the well pump. The septic tank. The windows on the north side. The front porch floor. The water heater.
Twice.
I’m a mail carrier. I keep track of things. That’s the whole job.
So I kept every single receipt from that house in a spiral notebook in the hutch drawer. And every January, when the propane bill came, I sat down at the kitchen table and added it all up.
By that Tuesday night in March, the total came to sixty thousand, three hundred and forty dollars.
And that’s not counting the work Dale and I did ourselves. Every wall I patched. Every window I reglazed with a putty knife. Every Saturday Dale spent lying on his back under that front porch with a jack.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
At TheArchivists, Ethan specializes in uncovering compelling stories that reflect a wide range of human experiences. His work is celebrated for its authenticity, creativity, and ability to spark meaningful conversations, earning him recognition among peers and readers alike.
Passionate about the art of storytelling, Ethan enjoys exploring themes of culture, history, and personal growth, aiming to inspire and inform with every piece he creates. Dedicated to making a lasting impact, Ethan continues to push boundaries in the ever-evolving world of digital content.