Column: Life in an all-male newsroom where . . . everyone behaved!

I mentioned in a previous column that I had once worked in an all-male newsroom. The context was the rash of men in many fields, including journalism, who have been accused of sexually inappropriate behavior. Though our newsroom could easily have forgotten me and descended into a locker-room mentality with its corresponding “we’re all guys here” attitude, it never did.

In fact, I remember only one awkward gender-oriented situation. As Christmas approached, I thought it would be grand to have a holiday buffet lunch. Everyone could bring something. Well, no. The men donated money to buy food, beverages and utensils, but I had to set up the party myself.

When it came time to eat, everyone thought the luncheon was a terrific idea. But since they were newspaper reporters, they took their plates back to their desks and ate while continuing to work.

Merry Christmas to me!

This newsroom was a bureau of the Providence (R.I.) Journal, located in nearby Fall River, Mass. It was a first floor former storefront; one big office with a small break room. Next door was an old-fashioned luncheonette, the kind with booths sporting vinyl upholstery. Two doors down was a bakery. It was a very convenient location.

At the front of the room sat our bureau chief. He was a former Catholic priest. In fact, he was my former priest, having led my family’s parish in the suburb of Somerset while I was growing up. This was not as awkward a situation as it sounds, although I sometimes I had flashbacks of him in his Roman collar.

It was the 1980s. There were computers in the newsroom (more like simple word processors), but they were lined up on a long table. The personal computer would not be widely available for a few years. The Internet was a decade away.

I was happy with the ease of writing on a computer, especially the ability to correct myself as I wrote. Still, I remember feeling scared when I hit send. Where, exactly, did my work go? Had it really been sent?

I earned my journalistic chops at the bureau. There was one editor over in Providence who was always making me rewrite, or asking me a dozen questions about a story. This annoyed me, because I often wrote about selectmen’s meetings in the neighboring rural town of Westport. 

I always bit my tongue and did what was asked. One day, I was assigned to cover a big anniversary (possibly the 100th) of the Woman’s Club of Fall River. Groan. How was I going to make anybody want to read that? Once I got to the lovely historical building that was the club’s headquarters, however, I discovered its history was fascinating. Through the “chautauqua” movement of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the club brought speakers, authors and entertainers to Fall River. The aim of the chautauqua was to provide lifelong learning for adults.

Now that was something to write about. Women in that time period did not have many opportunities. The chance to participate in intellectual activities would have been powerful.

Lo and behold, my picky editor loved it. I guess he hadn’t been looking forward to this article either and was thrilled that I was able to turn it into something more than a fluff piece.

This being Fall River, our bureau chief was obsessed with Lizzie Borden, the woman acquitted of murdering her father and stepmother in 1892. I could understand. I was too.

Our oldest reporter was a dear man who was proud to be Irish-American. Every year, when the new phone book came out, he would count the number of people with his common surname and compare it to the number of people named Raposa (a common Portuguese surname). He would be relieved when he learned that the Irish were still in the lead.

A new reporter named Paul arrived in 1983. We started dating and tried to keep it secret, but word soon got out. We married in 1986, the same year we moved to Maine.

The journalistic world has changed exponentially since then. The changes, in fact, had already begun. But in my memory lives a small newsroom, full of cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke; the phone constantly ringing with another funeral home calling in an obituary, which we had to write down word for word. As deadlines approached, the energy level rose. A fire at 5 p.m., when we were trying to wrap things up for the morning paper, was everyone’s worst nightmare.

Ah, those were the days.

Column: Using DNA to investigate the diversity in my family tree

I crossed an item off my bucket list recently. I spit into a vial and sent it off to Ancestry. In a few weeks, I’ll receive a report telling me where my ancestors came from.

I’ve been intrigued by this process ever since it became available—and affordable. It usually costs around $100, but I took advantage of a Cyber-Monday deal and got it for $59.

My husband, Paul, is an amateur genealogist and has traced his family tree back to France. My lines are not so direct.

My maternal grandparents came from the Azores, an archipelago in the mid-Atlantic that is an autonomous region of Portugal. They specifically came from the island of São Miguel. Like many other Azorean emigrants to the U.S., they settled in an area that ranged (approximately) from East Providence, R.I., eastward to New Bedford, Mass. The Souzas and Mellos found homes and jobs in a Rhode Island town adjacent to Fall River, Mass., which at one point was the leading textile manufacturer in the country.

My paternal great-grandparents also hailed from São Miguel. But they first emigrated to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. There, Manuel Soares Faria (as the family members then called themselves) ran a saloon. He died prematurely, however, probably of cancer. His wife, Anna, took their three sons to Fall River.

There they learned, presumably from other Portuguese immigrants, that in the English- speaking world, their name should be Faria Soares, not Soares Faria. My grandfather was the middle child; Victor Faria Soares.

Victor worked in the cotton mills in Fall River, but had ambitions. He met the daughter of Québécois immigrants, Rose Raymond, and married her. Given the stories my father told me about conflict among the various ethnic groups that populated the city, this Portuguese/Québécois marriage flaunted conventions. Dad had to choose which side to stick with in playground battles; he selected, probably because of his surname, the Portuguese.

Paul has been able trace my Québécois line back to the 1600s because he was familiar with the resources from doing his own family tree. Also, many of these resources are available right here in Maine.

Since Maine does not have a sizable Portuguese-American population, it’s harder to find information. Trying to trace my roots in Brazil and the Azores seems like an insurmountable task. That bucket list item—completing my family tree—is on hold for now.

But I do have my DNA results to look forward to. My paternal grandmother’s line is French, but I do have several native relations too, through French-Indian intermarriage. One is Marie Olivier Sylvestre Manitouabéouich, a Huron, who is quite well known in Québec as the first Indian known to have married a Frenchman, in 1644. Louise Manitouakikoué, a 9th-generation grandmother, was Algonquian. Jean Baptiste Charbonneau, Sacajawea’s son, is a cousin. Will my DNA show any Native American ancestry?

I am eagerly anticipating what may lurk in my Portuguese background. The Portuguese were great explorers in the 15th and 16th centuries. Their empire included Brazil, Angola, Mozambique, Cape Verde, Goa and Macau. The Azores were only settled in the mid-15th century, so who knows what kind of inter-marrying went on?

Flemish settlers migrated to the Azores. Flanders (generally speaking) is the region of Belgium that is Dutch-speaking. There are indications of Flemish heritage in my mother’s family. My grandmother, Emma, had a round face, light hair and blue eyes. My mother and several of her siblings had blue eyes. My grandfather, on the other hand, was tall and angular and had black hair and dark eyes—a more stereotypical Portuguese.

Portugal, along with Spain, was invaded by the “Moors” in 711.  This is a vague term that probably refers to the Berber people of North Africa. They were Muslims, and would rule in various forms until the 15th century. Will my DNA indicate any North African roots?

Finally, Portugal, like Spain, conducted an Inquisition against Jews from the 16th century onward. Some Spanish Jews emigrated to Portugal and seemingly converted to Catholicism. Others were native Portuguese Jews, who did the same. However, they still secretly practiced their faith.

Some were found and expelled by the government. Others remained secreted.

My mother would often say she thought there were Jews in our family line. As a child, I didn’t know what she was talking about. As an adult, I thought she was making things up.

But then I remembered a conversation I had with my Mémère (grandmother), Rose Raymond Soares. We were visiting her in Maryland, where she lived with my uncle. Mom and Dad were upstairs in her room, Uncle Vic was in his room, and my sister and I were in the finished basement, on a pull out sofa bed with Mémère. I was about 13.

Maggie was asleep, but my grandmother and I were talking softly. She told me about the saloon in Rio, which she described as a “coffeehouse.” Then, she said, “You know, we are descended from an Indian princess.”

I told this to my father, who was named Raymond in honor of his mom. He set me straight on that supposed early version of Starbucks in Rio (it may have been a brothel, not a coffeehouse) and just smiled and shook his head at the Indian princess story.

Darn. I wanted to be an Indian princess!

It wasn’t until Paul researched my Québècois line that I realized Mémère must have been talking about Marie Manitouabéouich. Anyone who has ever seen “History Detectives” on PBS knows that family stories can get a bit garbled over the years; repeated so often they become like a game of “telephone.”

So who knows what I will learn? I am just eager to know who came before me, and I hope the results are as diverse and intriguing as they can be.

Column: Appreciating the importance of play as a form of learning

I was recently delighted to witness a demonstration of the power that play has in children’s development.

Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? For decades we have known how important it is for children to play. According to an article published in the journal Pediatrics,”Play is essential to development because it contributes to the cognitive, physical, social, and emotional well-being of children and youth. Play also offers an ideal opportunity for parents to engage fully with their children.”

I remember many role-playing games from my childhood, some of them facilitated by toys, some not. I ran a shop with pretend groceries, taught school, organized a library and directed plays. My family played board games. I especially remember one called “Masterpiece,” which actually helped me become familiar with many of the world’s greatest artists.

At school, we had recess, and played hopscotch and dodge ball. We swung, twirled ourselves on the merry-go-round, went up and down on the seesaws, swung ourselves across the “monkey bars.” All of the equipment was metal, and there wasn’t a wood chip in sight. Once, running an impromptu race, I stuck my foot under a barbed-wire fence and pierced my ankle. 

I had to be rushed to the doctor for stitches.

After school, kids in the neighborhood gathered. This being the baby-boom generation, there were plenty of us. We rode our Schwinn bicycles with their high-rise handlebars and banana seats, and played tag and “pig pile.” No one supervised us or organized us.

Today’s children are usually overscheduled (if they aren’t completely neglected and left to watch TV for hours). They have lessons, playdates and teams. Some school districts have done away with recess, or tried to “organize” it. Mustn’t miss a teachable moment!

From Pediatrics: “Currently, many schoolchildren are given less free time and fewer physical outlets at school; many school districts responded to the No Child Left Behind Act of 2001 by reducing time committed to recess, the creative arts, and even physical education in an effort to focus on reading and mathematics.”

Though I firmly believe in the power of play, it was truly illuminating to participate in a recent “Choice Day” program at Farrington Elementary School in Augusta. I am the librarian for the district.

This special day (really just most of a morning) gives students a chance to pick from a myriad of activities offered by staff. The children selected two activities, each lasting about 45 minutes. Among the offerings were yoga, “spa” treatments and musical chairs. The library was board game central. A shout-out to staff netted us dozens of games, from checkers to Angry Birds.

At first, I was apprehensive about the program. Would students expect me and my library colleague to teach them how to play the games? My father liked to tell me how his older brother, Victor, would solemnly and silently read instructions for a new game as the other three children in the family sat quietly around him. Then he’d say, “This is what we do.”

I am not Uncle Victor.

For some reason, I had, at one point, bought an Angry Birds game. This included the walls, pigs, birds and a plastic catapult. As I set it up at school, I wondered if it was a good idea. But I catapulted a bird and it didn’t go very far. We would not have hostile avian missiles hurtling all over the library.

The children arrived and excitedly picked their games. Other staff came too. The students set up their games. The older ones helped the younger ones. Teachers played with students. There were no behavior issues and the students cleaned up their games and put them away when asked. The students were absorbed, collaborative and creative.

One boy, an Iraqi immigrant, was particularly entranced by the Angry Birds game, and was quite good at it. A few days after Choice Day, I saw him in the supermarket with his older sister, who graduated from high school a couple of years ago. She had been a student helper in the Cony high school library.  I greeted them and told her how her brother had enjoyed his “game time,” and the skill he had shown with Angry Birds.

She was pleased to hear this. “He hasn’t always enjoyed school, you know.”

I did know. But I also know that one positive experience, one chance to show off your skills, one word of recognition from an adult, can change a child’s life forever. Let’s give our kids more time to play, to learn, to succeed.

Column: Yes, our luck can turn bad, but then it rebounds

Sometimes, my husband, Paul, and I seem to have a run of bad luck. The week of Thanksgiving was an example.

On Sunday of that week, Paul had to take our oldest chicken, Snowy, to be euthanized at an emergency vet clinic. She had not been herself for a couple of weeks, and a few days earlier Paul had brought her to a veterinarian who is knowledgeable about chickens. That vet gave her a thorough checkup, and said he thought her behavior was just part of the aging process.

We believe she was either seven or eight, and the vet said eight years or so is a typical lifespan for a chicken. We had thought it was more like 10 years.

In any case, Snowy stopped eating the weekend before Thanksgiving, leading to our decision to put her down in a humane way.

Wednesday of that week was Paul’s birthday, and he had to bring the car to the shop. If he didn’t keep that appointment we would have had to wait awhile to get in. Since the repairs involved the brakes, among other things, we thought we should get the car fixed sooner rather than later.

The repairs cost $600.

On Thursday, we were looking forward to having Thanksgiving dinner at a local restaurant. We had reservations for 11:45 a.m. I gave the dogs and cats lunch at 11, then got ready. Paul and I then sat in the living room with the dogs for 15 minutes or so. Five minutes before we were to leave, our pit bull/lab mix Martha had a panic attack.

Martha is a skinny, hyperactive, 35-pounder. She had done this at least once before. Martha started licking every surface in sight. Dogs eat grass in order to vomit; Martha took it one step further by licking the furniture, the carpet, the floor . . . yes, until she upchucked.

The throwing up, as bad as it was, was not the worst part, though. She wouldn’t stop licking afterwards. I was so upset, I thought I was going to pass out.

Paul canceled our reservation. I got out Martha’s “thunder shirt.” This is a wraparound sweatshirt for dogs that helps them calm down during thunderstorms or other stressful situations. We had bought it for her after she was attacked by another dog nearly two years ago. Martha wasn’t physically injured in the incident, but she had some post-traumatic stress that caused her to shake on multiple occasions. Paul and I found that the thunder shirt helped with that.

But we hadn’t used it for months. The pictographic instructions were difficult to follow. Both of us wrestled with the darn thing until finally Martha was “wrapped.”

Next, I took her out to the room we call the “ell.” Our Victorian house once had an attached shed. It wasn’t as well-constructed as the rest of the house, and we finally had it demolished in 2012. Then, in its footprint, we had a family room constructed.

This room can be shut off from the rest of the house because there is a door between the ell and the kitchen. I sprayed the room with Adaptil, which is a calming agent for dogs. I lit a lavender soy candle. On my phone, using Pandora, I played Indian flute music.

Our chocolate lab, Aquinnah, also has panic attacks. His involve drooling and an inability to settle. I had found that taking him into the ell, and putting on smooth jazz helped him calm down.

When Martha had a PTSD incident following her attack in 2015, I played smooth jazz. It didn’t seem to help until a Native American flute piece appeared in the mix. Aha!

The music worked its magic again. Paul and I surmised that she had worried about why we were dressed up to go out and yet didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Her brain circuits overloaded. But now, finally, Martha fell sound asleep, and when she woke up, she was very hungry.

Well, so was I. I thought I had nothing to eat in the house because I knew we wouldn’t be hungry after the Thanksgiving buffet. Then I realized I could make an old favorite. I sauté garlic and broccoli in olive oil with lemon pepper, pour this over thin spaghetti, and top with a dash of parmesan. It made a tasty, if untraditional, Thanksgiving dinner.

The following Sunday, Paul and I made plans to go to a new brew pub that has opened in our town. I fed the dogs early but we didn’t sit down to kill time. We just headed out.

We thought we knew what we wanted to order, but our server told us that a “Thanksgiving pizza” was still available. Paul and I thought it sounded good, and, well, since we hadn’t actually had a Thanksgiving dinner . . . .

It was delicious. Turkey and all the fixings atop a hand-tossed, wood-fired dough. It really tasted like Thanksgiving.

And I was more than ready to give thanks.

Column: A vertically challenged shopper tries to buy groceries

I couldn’t reach the six-pack of Evian water. I was at Target, and the lonely six-pack was on the far side of the top shelf of the water section. Looking around, seeing no one, I surreptitiously stood on the bottom shelf.

I’d been reprimanded for doing this very thing a few weeks earlier, in the dog food aisle. But I wanted my water. It’s mineral water from the French Alps! Is it my fault my arms are short.

Though desperate, I did imagine the whole row of shelves coming down on top of me. That would not be a good thing.

A voice behind me asked, “Can I help you?” I turned to see a tall young man, a Target associate.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Could you get that water down for me?” He did.

After thanking him, I meandered down the aisles. It was a Saturday, and I wanted to get a sweet treat for my husband, Paul. Klondike Bars are always a sure hit with him. Oh, my, they had Klondikes infused with Reese’s peanut butter cups. Needless to say, the way my day was going, they were way in the back of the freezer case.

Once again, I looked around. A thirty-something man was passing by with his wife and two children. “Sir,” I said, “Could you possibly get those Klondike Bars for me?”

“Sure.” He had no trouble reaching them. And of course he didn’t mind because having long arms is a cool thing.

On Facebook, I wondered if the shelves were getting higher or if I was shrinking.

It’s a known fact that we do get shorter as we age. According to the wellness website of the University of California, Berkeley, “People lose height because the discs between the vertebrae in the spine dehydrate and compress.”

In my prime, I was proud to be five-foot-four and three-quarters. This, to my mind, was neither too short nor too tall. One of my college roommates and I were the same height. But when we stood together and looked in the mirror, her legs were longer than mine. My torso was longer than hers. Hmm. I felt I’d gotten the wrong end of the deal.

Still, I liked feeling average. I didn’t want to stand out. My height was average, my weight was average—all good. For my high school commencement ceremony, we were arranged by height. I was right in the middle.

Now I have shrunk at least an inch, maybe an inch and a half. There are two problems with this. Because of my short legs, I need to go with petite sizes when I buy pants or jeans. Now, the petite is really not petite enough.

The other problem is reaching those high shelves.

I don’t seem to have this problem when I shop for groceries at my local Hannaford. I have other problems there, as regular readers of this column know. As an example, I turned into the pasta and rice aisle the other day just in time to see a young woman shove her cart forward and then remove her hands from the handle. This would have been bad enough on the face of it, but she had a toddler sitting in the baby seat. Her cart was headed directly for my cart. I stopped short, and the (I’m guessing) father of the child grabbed the runaway carriage, taking control of the situation.

For some reason, the shelves are higher at Target. But if social media is good for anything, it can make you feel like you’re not alone. I received quite a few replies to my lament.

Many women believe the shelves are too high. Some insist that their tall husbands accompany them on shopping trips. I was relieved to see that other women are not embarrassed to ask strangers to get an item down for them.

A tall cousin wrote, “Yes, I’m called on for long-arm duty at Stop & Shop all the time.”

From a friend: “My husband at 6’5” is asked at least once on every shopping trip to assist with a shelf reach.”

I had no idea this was a “thing.”

Paul is six feet tall, but he doesn’t like shopping. When we go to Target, he gets what he needs to get, then retires to Starbucks with a book. This may have to change.

At any rate, I’m just glad to know that I’m not the only one with “short girl problems.” That it’s perfectly OK to ask random tall guys to fetch items for me.

After all, when men want to know if there’s any difference between garlic salt and garlic powder, or where the gravy mixes are—I am happy to help.

I may have shrunk, but I still know the answers to questions that confound men in the grocery store.

Column: A close encounter with a predator of the child-abusing kind

In September, 1970, I was on a trip to New York City with my family. Vince Lombardi, the famed NFL coach, had died a few days earlier and his funeral Mass was being said on this particular Monday in St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  Lombardi was a hero to my father, so Dad wanted to stand outside to watch the proceedings. Perhaps you have to be Catholic to understand this kind of thing, but there it is.

We were on a bus headed for the cathedral. It was packed, and we were standing. I became aware of someone behind me pressing up against me. I knew from the smell of aftershave it was a man. Something swung against my leg, perhaps a briefcase. Several people stood between me and my parents. I tried to move away, but there was nowhere to go. I was afraid to cause a scene.

I was 14 years old.

I was the same age as the youngest woman Alabama U.S. Senate candidate Roy Moore is accused of touching inappropriately. I have absolutely no problem believing it took her, and her fellow accusers, 40 years to come forward.

I wasn’t in danger. I was going to be getting off the bus in a few minutes. My unseen attacker didn’t try to do anything else but continually press against me. But I felt helpless and, yes, unclean, though I was the victim, not the perp. What kind of a creep presses up against a high school freshman on a bus?

Later I would learn there is actually a slang term for this behavior. I was stunned to discover it was a known “thing.”

Back then in school, no one talked to kids about “stranger danger.” A few years before the New York trip, I was out playing every evening with a pack of neighborhood kids until it was nearly dark, with no adult supervision. Since we lived in a small town in Massachusetts, my parents did teach me how to behave in the city (such as avoiding eye contact with strangers). But one of my father’s brothers lived in Manhattan and the other outside of Washington, D.C. We visited them often when I was young. I knew the ropes. I just didn’t know what a sexual predator was.

After that incident, I became wary. I didn’t often find myself in situations where I could be preyed upon, because my parents were overprotective. Silver lining.

In the upper grades of my high school, students were offered a range of options to fulfill the physical education requirement. A friend and I, who were philosophically opposed to team sports, thought the martial arts class was a terrific idea. However, on the first day, we noticed the teacher was a little “touchy,” not just with us, but other students. We decided to switch to fencing, where our bodies would be totally protected.

I do believe most men are good at heart. But I haven’t worked in environments where power goes to men’s heads, such as entertainment and politics. I was once the only woman in a newsroom of men and never had a problem with impropriety. That is where I met my husband, Paul, so I guess I would have to admit love was in the air. But not sex.

I suppose the conversations there could have turned salty at times, it being a newsroom, but I don’t remember that happening. I recall working with a team of decent men.

Now I’m in education, a female-dominated field. Male teachers have to be caring types—the pay’s not great and they have to like children and young adults to do your job. That’s not to say I haven’t encountered some sexism and inappropriateness over the years. But perhaps it helps that, at least in my school district, we all have to read and sign sexual harassment policies annually.

In 1976 I was in college in Providence, R.I. Classes were canceled due to a storm. People were partying all over campus. The drinking age was 18, so when I say party, I mean party. My roommate and her boyfriend took me to one of these dos, hosted by boys I didn’t know. They were making screwdrivers in a big bowl. Tasty! I drank two and nearly hit the floor.

But my friends were with me. They took care of me and got me home. I was so sick I sat in a lounge where all the reading material consisted of religious tracts, Providence College being a Catholic school. 

I did learn my lesson, and to this day thank God for not having left me on a floor somewhere—where a predator might have found me.

Column: Never take a smoothly humming furnace for granted

My husband, Paul, and I did not lose power during the great October wind storm, but on the following Saturday we woke to a cold house. Paul went down cellar to investigate, but couldn’t get the furnace going. So he called our fuel company.

There was a time when the furnace was constantly going out, so much so that the fuel company was going to give us a new one, because they weren’t able to fix it. The breakdowns always seemed to start after we’d had the furnace tuned up for the winter. Finally, somebody from the fuel company noticed that we had an unusual model number. It was XB, or some such, while other similar furnaces with XA. The technicians had been tuning it up to XA standards,

After that, we were wary of having them come in every fall, even though we knew to make sure the technicians were aware of which model they were dealing with.

On this recent Saturday morning, the technician arrived bright and early. After taking a look at the furnace, he asked if we had had any power surges during the storm. Yes, Paul said. The tech said many people had to have their timers replaced over the course of the week for just that reason. He fixed our timer. It did not do the trick.

Next, he noted we had a gunked-up fuel line. He cleaned it up. The furnace still would not go on.

My first thought was, “Isn’t it lovely when these things happen on the weekend and there’s no quick fix?” I visualized the fuel company accountant ringing up our bill on an old-fashioned cash register. The imaginary transaction produced a very long receipt.

I was also concerned that the furnace, at 30-plus years old, had finally bit the dust. What do new furnaces cost? I didn’t know, but was sure it was more than we wanted to spend.

But I wasn’t hosting a pity party. I would much rather be without heat than power, if given the choice. During the Ice Storm of 1998, we lost power for several days. I could endure the daylight hours. Our bedroom faces south and stayed fairly warm. We huddled under comforters with our two dogs, so I was fine getting to sleep. It was the evenings that made me anxious. We were cold. The house was dark, except for lanterns and candles. There wasn’t much to do besides worry.

Though we had a wood stove, we weren’t using it back then because Paul has asthma. But after that experience, we tried using it again. In recent years, we have replaced the stove-to-chimney pipe and installed a new metal chimney. Our wood stove dates from the 1970s, when many Mainers bought them in response to the fuel crisis.

With these improvements, our vintage stove took on new life. It warms the downstairs and I can even use it to cook. I wouldn’t try to do anything with raw meat or fish, but I can heat up cans of soup or baked beans, or even make macaroni and cheese.

So when the furnace died the other day, I figured if we were without it for a couple of days I would be OK. We still had light. We still could run space heaters. I could still cook on my electric stove. After all that friends and colleagues had gone through in the past week (and some were still without power at that point), I wasn’t going to whine about losing heat.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to. Our tech, an affable young man, decided we needed a new motor. He headed downtown and got us one from the company’s headquarters. Soon, our furnace roared to life.

And when I say roar, I mean roar. The new motor was so loud, it sounded like the house was ready for liftoff. Given that it is a Victorian structure, I doubted it would survive an orbit of the earth.

During this whole time, I was sequestered in the family room with our two dogs. But I could hear Paul and the tech talking in the adjoining kitchen.

The technician was saying that most people, when faced with a furnace breakdown, immediately assume they will need a new furnace. He recounted the story of a man in his 20s who called his father and said, “Dad, I’m going to need $8,000!” The technician got the furnace up and running and the young man called his dad back. “Never mind."

“Is that what they cost nowadays?” Paul asked.

Yup.

We dodged the bullet this time. Our house is toasty and we haven’t had to use the woodstove yet. But colder days are coming, and the reality of climate change is that our storms are likely to be fiercer.

I have vowed to be grateful for my furnace and woodstove. One could go out any time. The other is a loyal friend.