I have heat and hot water.
It could be that I'm in Zone 1, but it's more likely that Columbia Gas didn't want to make the news... again. What started with a hissy fit by the contractors on Thursday, escalated into hours of phone calls up the political food chain that included calls to people in high positions within the law enforcement community. Those calls coupled with hours-worth of phone calls to Columbia Gas and twenty-one photos attached to emails result in a multitude of workers descending on my townhouse on Friday and again Saturday morning (at 7:15 a.m. -- thank goodness I was up and dressed; no make-up, but whatever).
On Saturday we here in New England are experiencing our first seasonal Nor'Easter. Luckily for this part of the state, that means lots of rain and some hefty wind gusts. I leave the workers dragging mud and leaves through my den to get to the basement (in their defense, they try to keep it clean, but I have to put down more Murphy's Oil Soap at some point, anyway). They're replacing pipes, they're installing a furnace, they're installing and re-venting the hot water heater.
When I return from running errands hours later, the workers are trying to drill through the field stone basement, breaking and toasting drill bits every step of the way. I am supposed to have a team of two guys in my house. At several points, there are a dozen workers in my cellar. I haven't had this much company in my entire life.
I know that the gas meters have been installed (by a different crew) way too close to the house ... about four feet too close. I also don't have a stove yet. Even though progress is being made downstairs, outside the meters remain precariously close to my windows. It seems like it's going to be a long time before I see daylight and a hot shower again.
The plumbers and I are all old pals by now. We laugh about FOX news trying to interview me while having a BBQ and several beers at my daughter's house (a half mile away -- also in the gas crisis area), and about how I was not willing to speak on camera with a buzz and be recognized by students and school staff. We talk about their living conditions on a ship in Boston Harbor's Seaport district, a ship that is completely dry of alcohol and serving them horrid sandwiches (yes, they show me a picture).
Honestly, at this point ... I love these guys.
One of the plumbers brings in an inspector to check their work. He is a white-haired gentleman wearing a service Army cap. He is older but by no means ancient.
"Army?" I say. "Where did you serve?"
"Cambodia."
Holy shit. This guy is totally badass.
I know darn well that a crew still has to come in and clean out the mess in my basement. Plus, they need to come get the brand new hot water heater down there that was the wrong one, so it's just sitting around. I also know that the outside meters need to be moved by law.
My plumber pal comes back into the house and tells me his work is all done except for one last thing. The relight. The relight which, he informs me, he's going to do right now.
"Now?!"
"Yes," he says. "You'll have heat immediately and hot water in an hour, maybe forty-five minutes."
I'm so bloody happy I could kiss him. Within minutes the new furnace is humming and pumping out hot air. I have to open the doors for a few minutes to blow off any smoky residue and to avoid setting off the new alarms they installed. The crew and I chat with the heat blaring at 80 and with both my front and back doors wide open, letting the Nor'Easter into my home.
No more multiple blankets. No more footie pajamas in October. No more electric fireplaces out of necessity. Best of all --
No more trash-can showers.
I have heat and hot water. It's a goddamn mother-freaking MIRACLE.
