Every November, right around the time after I’ve been sleeping in socks and pretending flannel sheets are “enough,” it happens — the annual awakening of the furnace. It’s been hibernating since late spring, dreaming, I imagine, of thermostats set comfortably above 68 and air filters that don’t look like the lungs of a coal miner.

At our house, there’s a ceremony to it — a primitive sort of ritual that feels older than civilization itself. You stand at the top of the basement stairs, apprehensive, like a zookeeper about to poke something that bites. You look back at your loving wife and announce, “I’m going in.” Standing in front of the furnace is like standing in front of my mother-in-law — not entirely sure if she liked me or merely tolerated my presence. One hand on the switch, the othe

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