What Lies Below
The four-panel latch door leading to our cellar matches all the other interior entries, except, having stepped over this threshold, one passes from the life above to the world within. Little did I know when deciding to clean the furnace, a hero’s challenge lay in wait. Down those old hemlock stairs, and across the dirt, over there by the chimney, in the corner where the granite meets, tucked under a single bulb, my nemesis awaits.
There came the point when venturing into the unknown; an accident led me forward. I the neophyte, marveled when peering into the chamber of flues for I have never seen encrusted combustion byproduct extend out from a verticle surface appearing solid, however when disturbed, it crumbled with a light touch. My lance (a stiff brush) properly positioned expected resistance, I lunged forward. The lance escaped my grasp and fell into the firebox. My weapon was momentarily lost, but the next leg of the journey delivered me into the belly of the beast where I would find salvation or surrender.
Access to the firebox is through the burner portal, and that meant unhooking a fuel line, disconnecting a mass of wires and finally removing the burner, and only then I could retrieve my weapon; the prospect of which I found daunting. With questionable skill and a heavy reliance on intuition, I entered the maze of wires. My first thought upon removing the junction box cover was, “No way!” As defeatist as that sounded it was not how I felt. I had not begun this journey to fail, and as I sometimes do, I called upon all spirits, angels and wandering souls to abide with me and trust that my simplistic approach could wrestle this situation in hand; I also threw in a regular prayer or two. Now armed with different colored pens, I color coding all connecting ends.
Internally, confidence and will wanned and waxed as late morning past and late afternoon arrived. Rewired and reconnected, the moment of truth had arrived, did the universe hear my plea? I flipped the emergency switch, and the burner ignited. The neighborhood gathered and a bonfire lit, and I was hosted up onto the shoulders of all those who had braved what lies below and marched through the streets, crowds cheered as confetti rained from above.
I climbed the old spruce stairs emerging from the cellar and received a hero’s welcome, “Dad, you need a shower.” and “Honey, make sure those clothes are put into a bag and placed in the barn.” I returned smudged and soiled, and my reward was knowledge of what it takes and what to look for when I hire the next boilerman.
Jeff Bailey © 2018
