The Frigid Chronicles Part One

I am now living in a small Inuit village a snowball’s toss from the arctic circle.

Actually, I have moved temporarily someplace even colder and more foreboding -- a massive Victorian home in New England. Think of it as the dark side of Neptune with furnishings.

I am currently swathed in five layers of industrial-strength Gortex to the point that my mailman refers to me as Commander Perry. In fact, I have booked my next vacation with the Donner Party.

It was so cold this morning, I actually saw the breath come out the mouths of portraits on the wall.  And for a brief moment, I considered inserting myself directly into the fireplace to remove the permafrost from my body.

I echo Mark Twain's sentiments when he said it was so cold that "if the  thermometer were an inch longer at the bottom end, we'd all be dead."

“Frigid House” was built by a shipping tycoon in 1916. I’m convinced he became rich by not investing heavily in such exotic and frivolous things like furnaces, steam or anything that resembles heat or the illusion of warmth.

Sure, there are remnants of abandoned heating systems --fireplaces, steam pipes and a bizarre cast iron stove ominously called The Raven attached to the chimney, but none of them are working.

I braved the cold to enter the basement of the house, which frankly, has a Lizzy Borden kind of vibe. It’s where I found a cord of wood so old, Leif Erikson had carved his initials on it. Or perhaps it was Leif Garrett -- it's too cold to care.

Next to this petrified forest was a coal bin with massive black chunks and the desiccated remains of a miner still in it. Prometheus gave us the gift of fire, but I don't think he would have approved the fireplace.

Why we would we take one of nature's most lethal weapons and put it in our homes? Let's cuddle up to the fires of hell.  Hey, why not just put a Shark in the bathtub?

Well, the entire fireplace looked like the wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald. The inner workings of the chimney were composed of rust. But since death was only a few degrees away, I stuffed a wad of the Sunday paper under the logs and prayed that the flue was rusted open.

Next week: How to open a flue while wearing Rhinestone oven mitts.