Old Houses

I didn't think much about the lack of hot water on Friday morning - it's an old house and routinely high maintenance - I went about my morning chores, and to save a few steps, left The Cat Who Lives in the Garage a bowl of food on the back deck rather than take it to her inside the old wooden structure.  As soon as I got to work, I called the heating and plumbing people - they assured me they would be able to make a service call that day and I promptly shelved the problem in my "things that will be fixed later tonight" file.

We worked our usual half day Friday and I was home by noon, having rearranged my day to meet the technician rather than go from work to the grocery store - it was a minor inconvenience at the time, but this is a busy season for heating and plumbing companies, and the technician, a tall and lanky man in denims and a faded blue railroad cap, didn't arrive until just after 4:00.  Over the frenzied barking of the dogs, he introduced himself as Ken and gave me a friendly smile - I collared then locked up the dogs and pointed him to the garage - he tipped his cap and casually walked toward the back gate.

A few minutes later he was knocking at the back door - the friendly smile had turned into a genuinely serious look of concern - and I followed him to the garage where he showed me the self destructed water heater, sitting forlornly in a pile of burned leaves and ashes.  Scorch marks went all the way up one side and the wooden wall, just inches away, was blackened with soot.  It took several seconds for me to fully comprehend that there had been a fire, several minutes before I realized that it was a miracle anything had survived - the garage is old and made of wood, filled with a decade's worth of cardboard boxes, plastic bags of trash, discarded carpet and old half full cans of paint.  Dead, papery leaves cover the floor and collect in every nook and corner, including where the now defunct water heater stood.  It was, I began to understand as I watched Ken pick and pry at the old heater in search of a cause, an ideal environment for fire.  Shaking his head and looking at me as if I'd just won the lottery - the fire had died for no apparent reason without spreading and taking everything with it from garage to trees to my house and the one next door and at that moment, I think we both knew it - Ken was grimly silent.  I found myself thinking of a line from an old blues song my daddy had taught me, His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.


Come Monday, a new water heater will be installed.  Between now and then, cold showers seem a small price to pay.