Sunday, 12 December 2021, evening:
I breathed through my mouth through the face covering. I had learned in my first winter here that when the temperature drops below 20º below freezing (yes, more than 50ºF colder than when water freezes) that it hurts when I breathe the air directly in through my nose. Pulling air through my lips the long way to my lungs helps warm it up so it does not freeze my lungs’ alveoli or the inside of my nostrils.
The forecasted temperature was not expected to rise, and I did not feel like waking up extra, extra early tomorrow to plug in the truck so that its oil pan would be thawed enough for the engine to turn over. So, I unhooked the long outdoor extension cord from its spot inside the house.
The outdoor socket is on the side of the porch directly next to the front steps. As I lifted the protective lid with one hand, I noticed that the cord in my other was bent at nearly a forty-five degree angle down from the back of the plug. My brain absently recognized that this might become a problem and I should think about buying a new cord. Maybe later. I plugged in the cord and let the protective cover relax downwards.
Pop! A cascade of fiery red sparks shot out towards the stairs and I screamed in shock and jumped away. My heart rate rocketed. I whimpered a little, and gingerly, yet as quickly as possible, lifted the metal cover and pulled the plug from the socket, thinking it might burn my hand through the insulated wither glove. The cord dropped to the ground, having been cut away from the plug I was now holding. The metal of the cover had completed an undesired circuit from the socket though the break in the cord’s plastic, and obviously a break in an exposed wire, out into the dangerous shower.
The thinking part of my brain said, huh, you should have trusted me when I pointed out the bent cord. It also noticed the luck of the burst spraying towards the stairs — and away from me.
A lingering electrical burning smell prompted me to action. Heart still racing I dashed up the stairs and pushed open the front door.
A moment to pull the rubber guards over my soles so I could prevent damaging my flooring then I raced through to the other end of the house to check the breaker box. ‘Outside socket, West’ showed a little red box on the panel. I flipped the switch back and forth curiously, and the red disappeared. I breathed out. Does this mean I could still use the socket? I turned on the breaker and headed back outside. The short cord I store in the truck (and use to plug in while at work) should reach, since obviously the long one is destroyed.
The burning smell was stronger. My headlamp showed streaks of soot extending like a starburst from the socket openings. A vision of the house burning down from this point up and back through the wood transformed into me speeding in reality back into the house.
I flipped the ‘Outside socket, West’ switch once more to ‘Off’ and headed back outside. My house will not burn down. Thank you to whichever electricians invented the distribution board and circuit breakers!
I sighed. Now I have to learn how to replace a socket, and maybe (most likely) the cord from panelboard to socket. As a young child I remember helping my father rewire the house, but the extent of my experience was him yelling at me from another room to pull the wire through. “Do you see the wire?” “No!” “Now?” “I’ve got it!” “Well, pull it!” I felt so proud to be able to help him. How to actually do rewiring though I have no idea. I feel a little irritated and a little excited about the need to learn. That can wait until summer though. When it is a lot warmer!
The need to plug in the truck remained. I drove the truck to the other side of the house, nose in, and strung the short blue cord from what the electric panel would surely call ‘Outside socket, East’ through the porch railing and down to the front of the truck where the oil pan heater cord dangled.
I wondered if a moose might pass through as one sometimes does, and if it would step over the cord or push through it like through clumping grass, pulling it out of one or both of the sockets. Having not seen a moose all winter, Murphy’s Law dictated that now would be the time when one chose to visit. I could envision the cord tangling about a long brown leg and falling off somewhere where I would never find it, leaving me with no cord and only the option of biking to work. Brrr! I used a hand to help lift my snow-panted knee up and over the cord — and my leg sank into the snow up to that same knee. Teetering through the drift I stopped worrying about what a moose might or might not do and just went inside to sleep.
Monday, 13 December 2021:
On the way home from work today I swung by the grocery store and purchased a new 50-foot cord. This cold snap is predicted to be only a short one of three to four days, but I need a new cord today so I can park in my normal spot — nose out— and lay the cord across the deck rather than park nose-in on the other side of the house. I wonder if one day my truck won’t start, even after plugging it in. It will be simpler to reach the battery for a jump if the engine/hood is easily accessible. I know it will certainly be easier, and less expensive, to tow if the front of the truck is facing outwards and not diagonally where there might not be enough room for a tow truck to maneuver. As long as I (or any surprise visitor) doesn’t trip on the cord stretched in front of the door, the set-up will be just fine.
Since, I was outside already and thinking about the bad things that can happen, I decided to check the heating oil. Just my luck to run out again.
I always use the same gloves when checking the fuel: leather work gloves that are far too thin to be worn at these temperatures, but they are the ones covered by drops of heating oil. I’d have to move quickly. I slipped them on and I could feel the cold through them right away. I’ve heard tell that petroleum products can burn flesh through contact at these temperatures. I removed the padlock from the fill pipe, got the dip stick, and flipped open the pipe’s cover. The dip stick’s slide down into the fill pipe was not checked by the surface of the liquid for a long time. I hold my breath. How close was I to running out of fuel? After pulling out the measuring tool and checking the fuel’s exact level (low enough to call for a fuel delivery, but not too low for me to start to worry), I ran a hand down the stick, forcing the clinging liquid to drip back into the fill pipe. Fuel is pricy and very drop counts. Though the leather I felt burning on my fingers from my rings; I could sense the silver sucking in the cold and transferring it painfully to my skin. I hurried to replace cover, dipstick, and padlock then tossed the gloves into the porch corner and pulled on the thick winter gloves. My skin burned. I needed to take the rings off!
Stiff-jointed from the cold, I tripped over the curls of extra cord on the deck, nearly banging my head onto the storm door.
Sigh…
Maybe I should go to bed early tonight…
Sweet dreams, readers. Dreams of working joints and working houses….
