Every November, right around the time after I’ve been sleeping in socks and pretending flannel sheets are “enough,” it happens — the annual awakening of the furnace. It’s been hibernating since late spring, dreaming, I imagine, of thermostats set comfortably above 68 and air filters that don’t look like the lungs of a coal miner.
At our house, there’s a ceremony to it — a primitive sort of ritual that feels older than civilization itself. You stand at the top of the basement stairs, apprehensive, like a zookeeper about to poke something that bites. You look back at your loving wife and announce, “I’m going in.” Standing in front of the furnace is like standing in front of my mother-in-law — not entirely sure if she liked me or merely tolerated my presence. One hand on the switch, the other on your phone in case you suddenly need to Google, “What to do if furnace explodes,” holding my breath as if that will make me lighter in the blast radius.
Homes, I’ve decided, should have a big red button like we do at school — the one just outside the boiler room that says Emergency Shutdown. It’s the kind of button that promises clarity in chaos. You don’t have to think — you just hit it while running for your life, hoping it either shuts off the boilers, calls the fire department, or alerts the Almighty (or possibly the morgue), bypassing all the paperwork. I’ve never actually seen anyone use it, but it’s nice to know that, should things go south, there’s a plan — even if it’s a vague one.
Then comes the moment of ignition — that peculiar clunk, a groan from the depths, and the unmistakable aroma of scorched dust and faint regret. It’s a scent you could bottle and sell as Eau de Minnesota Winter: Notes of Toasted Mouse and Neglected Filter. Doesn’t matter how new the furnace is — they all smell the same. It’s a scent that says, “Welcome back to winter, you poor fool.” The first firing of the season always smells like something you probably shouldn’t inhale.
You tell yourself it’s “just the dust burning off,” crack a window for reassurance, and then close it immediately because this is Minnesota and that was a stupid idea.
There’s that anxious moment, too, when you wonder if it’ll even start. “Come on, old friend,” you whisper, “I know you’ve got one more winter in you.” Ironically, you make the same pitch to your snowblower every year. It coughs once, twice, then kicks in with a sound that says, Fine, but you owe me a filter change.
Of course, the start-up is only the prelude to the real battle: The Thermostat Wars. Every house has two factions — those who believe 62 degrees is “perfectly comfortable,” and those who believe anything under 72 is an act of cruelty. In our house, I’m the latter. I like to sneak the temperature up a degree or two when no one’s looking, like a covert operative in slippers — the warmth warrior. My wife always catches me. The self-appointed thermostat police.
“Did you touch the thermostat?” she’ll call out from the other room.
“No, dear, just dusting.”
Which would be more believable if I ever actually dusted anything.
After the obligatory speech about heating bills and sweaters, before long, I’m sitting there three layers deep, looking like I lost a fight with a sleeping bag, wondering why we even have a furnace if it’s illegal to use it.
That hum — that steady, reassuring whoosh from the vents — means something beyond heat. It means we’ve crossed the line. Fall’s officially clocked out, winter’s punched in for duty, and soon I’ll be scraping windshields, salting the steps, and convincing myself I “love the seasons.”
By the time the house settles into its new rhythm — the gentle hum, the soft whoosh from the vents — I can finally relax. The chill starts to fade, and the aroma of toasted dust gives way to something that smells a lot more like cozy.
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Funny thing — every year I threaten to replace it. But when it kicks on, I feel oddly grateful. I find myself whispering a quiet thank you to the old furnace. There’s something comforting about it — dependable, unglamorous, underappreciated. It reminds me of me.
So for one more season, it’s back on the job — groaning, clunking, and keeping us warm.
Not bad for something that spends half its life asleep in the basement.
Mark Glende, Rosemount, is an elementary school custodian. “I write about real-life stories with a slight twist of humor,” he says. “I’m not smart enough to make this stuff up.”
