The Cold Snap

It is easy to forget just how cold a home in Fort Lauderdale could get 50 years  ago.  My childhood home had  floor-to-ceiling jalousie windows, which were only marginally more airtight than a screen,  in every room and no heater. We shivered and froze through many a cold snap until January of 1968 when it was so cold  the unthinkable happened: My dad announced that he was going to light the oil burner.

The oil burner was the Floridian equivalent of a furnace; it had an industrial strength  blower and was essentially a huge space heater fueled by what looked and smelled like crude oil.  Dad had only lighted  it  once before and it did not end well. Now, for him to even contemplate trying again  it had to be wicked cold, but in spite of this my mother was instantly up in arms:  The  burner terrified her. “Please don’t!” she told Dad. “Remember the last time?”

My father usually gave in to my mother but not this time. “The children are cold,” he said protectively.  The children in question looked at him with alarm; my father had many good traits but his mechanical skills were negligible and we all knew it. “They can wear an extra sweater,” said Mom; “We’ll put extra blankets on the bed.

But Dad was adamant.  “I’m lighting the oil burner,” he said gravely.

“Please, ” Mom said. “Can’t we just burn the furniture piece by piece?” and Dad  shook his head.

The oil burner took up  an entire wall of the living room and looked like a miniature crematorium. When lighted,  the blower was so loud the whole house shook and the burning oil left a thick residue of greasy black soot on every surface.  Mom had good reason to be afraid of the oil burner:  the last time Dad had tried to light it he  somehow  opened the fuel line too early and the subsequent ignition of the pilot light created a small, but surprising loud, fireball which knocked him off his feet. During a couple of subsequent cold snaps he had tried, and failed,  to light the oil burner but this time, against all rational evidence,  he was  convinced he would succeed. Since my mother was equally convinced he was going to blow up the house, she made us kids wait in the driveway, shivering,  for the inevitable explosion.

We waited  in the driveway for a long time but then Mom  got brave.  She timidly ventured inside, peeked into the living room and heard Dad on the phone asking Uncle Carl to come help. She returned to the driveway, eyes wide.  “He called Carl,”  she announced, bravely wiping away a single tear and  somberly gathering her children close for a group hug, certain that  the next time she hugged us we would all be in a Better Place.

Uncle Carl was not really our uncle; he was my father’s best friend and my mother hated him. He  was a mechanical wizard when he was sober, but since he was very rarely sober after 5 pm our family’s fate now rested in the hands of our inept father and his drunken friend. Mom made us remain in the driveway; my brother and I had a contest to see whose fingers were the bluest.

Carl arrived and for a long time there was silence as he and Dad tried to master the complex system of valves and pilot lights and electric ignitions it took to start the heat.  We knew the burner finally ignited when we heard what sounded like a bomb detonating inside the house; simultaneously we saw Dad and Uncle Carl knocked off their feet by the force of the ignition. Ashen, Dad announced it was safe to come back into the house. Carl announced that he needed a drink. My mother announced her plans to sleep with the children in the Chevy.

The oil burner had no thermostat, and it only had two settings: “off” and “turbo,” so when we were finally coaxed back into the house it was putting off enough heat to blister your skin, but only if you stood right next to it; the heat never quite made it into the bedrooms, especially since Mom kept the bedroom doors closed, with  the conviction that when the burner exploded close doors would keep the fireball from incinerating the children.

When we woke up the next morning the house was so hot the wallpaper was peeling but my mother, having safely greeted the New Day decided to be magnanimous.  “That’s quite a heater,” she told Dad, wiping the sweat from her forehead.  “But I think you can turn it off now.”

Dad looked worried. “Off?”  he said.