It was 3 degrees this morning when I awoke. The winds last night were brutal. Winter is here. The heat upstairs is off but my heat pumps downstairs are chugging away, although set low, so I leave my toasty bed reluctantly.

When I finally get up, I snap on the switch of my gas stove in the living room — a faux fireplace cleaner and easier but less satisfying than the cackle and smell of a wood stove. At least it quickly warms this room. I avoid the kitchen, in my house’s chilly center domain. 

Finally, I relent and turn off the heat pumps and raise the gas furnace’s thermostat high enough to kick in the hot water baseboard heaters. This will warm even the downstairs areas immune to the reach of the heat pumps. At last I am comfortable, although I keep my wool hat and blanket on.

Cold makes me not just uncomfortable but sad. As I lay swaddled in front of the fireplace, I burst into tears. In Maine it is an article faith that one delays turning on the furnace until the cold is unbearable. The invariable answer is to add more layers. Although I have lived here many years, I am not a native, and my stoicism is not honed by enough years of suffering. Giving in means my heating bills may bust my budget, but my mood will lighten. I feel like an eco-traitor. I love Maine, but it can be cruel.

Janice Cooper
Yarmouth