A few days ago I began occasionally smelling oil when the furnace would kick on. The odor always dissipated quickly but it didn't seem right, so yesterday I called the oil company and they immediately scheduled a service check. I wasn't overly worried--we'd had the furnace cleaned and checked in September--so I certainly wasn't prepared for what happened next. The service guy told me that there'd been a breach in the combustion chamber and now poisonous gases were leaking into the ductwork. The breach could not be repaired. We needed to stop using the furnace immediately and replace it.

This is not news one wants to receive, ever. It is November in Maine, and a new furnace will cost an obscene amount of money, and who knows how soon we can get one installed. And of course the disaster happened on a Friday, so we can't even start to get quotes on prices until next week.

I was shellshocked . . . dreading about sharing the news with Tom, wondering how I would coax our tiny wood stove into becoming our primary heat source . . . This fall has been a beast of misfortune: my terrible car repairs, Baron's death, ongoing bat trouble, our dear one in the hospital (though they've since been released, thank goodness), and now we've lost our furnace.

But here's the thing. When I told Tom, he did not rant or sulk. He did not stomp around the house or sigh heavily. He did not glower or woe-is-me. He made no mention of how-the-fuck-are-we-going-to-pay-for-this. Instead, he nodded. He sat down on the couch and ate some pretzels. He made a few jokes involving the furnace's brand name. ("Now that we aren't using it anymore, we can let it march in the Thermal Pride parade.") He waxed pretend-nostalgic about its long life of service. (It was installed in this house in the 70s.) He texted some co-workers for suggestions about HVAC guys to call. He did a little research on heat pumps. He was, in short, calm and sensible, as he has been about so many of the messes we've waded through in our life together.

And I, under the sweet balm of his temper, relaxed and did what I know how to do: make a wood stove work. This little Jotul stove was not designed to be anything more than an efficient fireplace. It does not have a catalytic converter or a built-in damper. It has the plainest of air controls and a very small firebox. But despite those limitations, it is sturdy and airtight and in excellent firing condition. And we have plenty of dry hardwood and a clean chimney. So last night I set myself to coaxing the baby stove into serious household service.

This morning, when I got up, there were still live coals in the firebox and the household thermostat hadn't dropped below 60 degrees, which is where I normally set the furnace temperature overnight. So that was an achievement, a sign that we'll be able to keep the house comfortable, at least for the moment. My travel to Monson will be a problem, as T leaves for work very early and the firebox is so small that it needs to be fed many times a day. But my neighbor has offered to stoke it, and I've only got one more class before Thanksgiving. So I think we can limp through.

This weekend I'll be back in class, which means I'll be excitedly working on my own draft as well as spending time with other excited people. T and I have been invited out to dinner with people we like a lot. Chuck is purring up a storm. My son's partner is home in their own bed and showing signs of feeling better. The coffee is hot and the little stove is singing. I am married to the best sort of friend. Things could be so much worse.