First published in the Ipswich Local News July 2, 2024
I grew up with air conditioning. It was only when I was in college that I realized sleeping in a wet bathing suit in front of a fan wasn’t technically considered “air conditioning.”
Whatever.
But this summer, our [central] AC was struggling. The downstairs unit started shorting out every time it rained — which, in New England, I believe speaks for itself.
We ordered a new unit. Meanwhile, our upstairs system, which cooled the bedrooms, was purring along. Or at least coughing up hair balls. It ran rough, but with the looming heat wave, functional was all that mattered.
Later that week, the new downstairs unit was installed. It was shiny, sleek, and wonderfully quiet. But late on the first day of the heat wave, it suddenly went from quiet to silent. I called our air guy; he was sure it was electrical.
“There’s no way it’s electrical,” said our electrician when he came out during our dinner. It had been chicken and salad but now was hot lava with a side of simmering coals.
The air guy was perplexed but promised to fit us in first thing the next morning.
“Fine,” I said. “At least the upstairs is still air conditioned. We can always hang out in our bedrooms and have a big Von Trapp sing-along.”
I’m nothing if not flexible.
Our older daughter stepped outside to see how it could possibly be hotter outside than inside. She started yelling.
“It smells like smoke! Something’s on fire!”
I ran out. Sure enough, smoke was coming out of … I mean, isn’t it obvious where it was coming from?
“Turn off the upstairs AC!” I yelled.
My daughter ran up to the thermostat and shut it off.
The compressor stopped, but smoke continued to billow out. The smell of things electric and burning began to seep into the now not-air-conditioned bedrooms above. My daughter, a newly minted hospital employee having just undergone emergency training, found our fire extinguisher and yelled, “PASS!”
I stared at her. This was a potential emergency. She was taking a pass?
“No!” She yelled. “P.A.S.S.! Pull, aim, spray, sweep! It’s how to operate this! Let’s go!”
But by the time we got back outside, the smoked had stopped and the crisis had, well, passed.
But had it?
We found ourselves with a forecast of 98 the next day and no AC to speak of in any part of the house. I floated my childhood system of fans and bathing suits and was met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. And that’s really all I can pleasantly say about that night.
The next day, the AC guys came (back) and went to the downstairs unit (again) and discovered that the problem was neither electrical nor mechanical; rather, it was a water-based problem.
Later, I explained to my husband and daughter. “You see, the condensation from all the installation — plus a small drain pipe that came uncapped — created moisture that dripped into the drip pan and triggered the water sensor.”
I reached into the drip pan for the sensor to show them and …. hello? What did I pull out?
It was a very small, very old, medicinal-looking jar full of something that smelled quite a bit like a ski gondola in New Hampshire. My husband and I both stared. I shoved it under my daughter’s nose, thinking she’d laugh. She took a whiff and then stared at me perplexed. “Why would anyone hide cilantro in the basement?”
Indeed.
Why would anyone keep cilantro — or, say any sort of um, weed — in the basement? It had clearly been there for years, possibly decades, happily ensconced next to our water sensor, which I finally did locate.
With the downstairs AC back up and running, the air guys (who, by this point, had changed their primary address to our house) replaced the burnt-out motor in our upstairs unit. Slowly but surely, our house fought back against the heat wave.
A week without air conditioning during a record heat wave provided excitement and opportunities to learn important skills about operating fire extinguishers, plant and spice identification, and — perhaps most of all — keeping a bathing suit and fan on standby.