I have an apartment in an old house. The place was built sometime around the turn of the 19th century and has since (likely within more recent years) been converted into a large apartment for the owners and three smaller ones for people like me. It has great charm: bricked-in fireplace, cracks in the walls and soup-bowl floors. I love it.
I'm the youngest person in the building, which says a lot given that I'm in my early 40's. It means that I'm the one they call when the door sticks or there's a problem carrying something up the spiral stairs in the back. There are perks, too--my landlord gives me all of the home-grown tomatoes I can eat and I never have to worry that wild orgies will keep me up late. They know that I work "up at the college" and like to ask about how it's going, hear that I'm starting to settle in. What they don't know is that I might freeze to death come winter.
The house has radiators.
Not baseboard heat, but honest-to-god water-fed radiators. I've never had radiant heat in my life. I grew up in Texas in the late 60's/early 70's. We had first-generation forced-air heat and were by golly proud of it.
I have radiators and they scare the hell out of me. Do I add water, can I put plants on the decorative covers, what if they spring a leak, will the thermostat on the wall really control the heat or is it just for giggles?
I woke up to a 58-degree apartment, and know that layering won't be enough for much longer. Nights here in the Finger Lakes are getting chilly, and mornings are tough because I don't want to drag myself out from under the warmth of my 3-quilt bed, I'm going to have to tackle this demon. And soon.
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