By Jeff Woodard
January 1994, Columbus, Ohio
I thought the bourbon in in my veins was playing tricks on me. It was 10 0’clock on
a Tuesday, and I’d just returned home from tossing back a few Manhattans
courtesy Of my friends Andy and Chuck. What better way to take the chill Off the
winter of ’94 than with two wonderful buds and a few warmth-inducing libations.
I the car in my attached garage, and scurried into the back hallway,
anticipating the warmth that awaited. I knew immediately that something was
wrong. Sure, I set the thermostat back during the day when I’m not home. But
this didn’t fæl right. I’d just inside from temps that were rapidly on their way
to My (X)zy coccx)n was not feeling cozy.
I on the dining light, stepped into the living room and around the
over to the thermostat. The thermometer told the chilling tale: It was 58
in my house. Not knowing what to do, I did what I always do when I
don’t know what to do. I
Thank for terrific neighbors. I don’t think I’d ever called Dave and Anita on
the phone in the couple years I’d lived next to them. I didn’t know if it was too late
to call, and, of course, I didn’t know their phone number. It took me a few minutes
for my rapidly-chilling brain (Ells to recall their last name. I went to the phone
bcx)k, my fingers searching for the phone number.
Their phone rang twiæ before Dave
“Dave, it’s Jeff — next dcx)r,” I said.
“Hey, what’s up?” said Dave in his low-key-yet-chæry tone.
“Well, not the temperature in my house right.”
“Uh-oh.”
Dave recommended a 24-hour emergency service he knew about. “Of (nurse,
I’m not Sure what theVll charge you this time Of night.”
Before I knew it, Dave was at my door. We went to the garage to check out my
furnaæ. I should say Dave went to check out the furnace. I went to check out
Dave checking out the furnaæ. Dave was a cute little thing. But that’s a story for
another time.
The fumace pilot light was out. Sinæ we’d had a significant snowfall the previous
day, Dave thought the flue had b-æn blocked, choking off the ventilation
the furnaæ
As if he already gone above and his neighborly call, Dave asked
me to my garage door. He fetched the ladder hanging on the wall, carted it
Out back, and, I knew it, Was wading through the drifted Snow up on my
roof in the numbing cold. He said the flue clear to him. The thing I
see at that moment was that I had one hell Of a neighbor.
Dave wasn’t able to fix the problem, but I appreciated his effort and kindness
more than I Can tell you. I ended up calling the emergency furnaæ guys, who, Of
course, were busier than hell that night —and all that week. They came out just
after midnight. After a half hour, the furnaæ was running.
I thanked the furnaæ guy profusely. But I was taking no chances. I piled an
afghan, a blanket and a sleeping bag on top of my which was already
than Hillary Clinton at a hockey game. æfore I even get into bed, the
furnaæ had pooped out again.
I made another (211 to the furnaæ guy. He returned. He fixed the furnaæ —
again. By this time, it was about 2:30 a.m. I slept with one open, the Other frozen
shut. I was pretty worthless at work. I did, though, recx»ver in time to
retum home from work Thursday to a hissing sound from the laundry
The water piEES had frozen and burst.
Thankfully, I’d written Dave’S number on a post-it and left it by the phone.
“Dave,” I said, smiling at what his would this time.
“Yeah, it’s Jeff, I just got home and
He cut me off with a laugh. “Now what?”
“You’re not even gonna believe this, bu