No frozen water pipes. Next comes the ugly part—the furnace pilot light. I’ll just get it over with and then reward myself by visiting the bathroom upstairs.
I don’t think much of it—the way the trapdoor rug is heaped to one side of the kitchen floor. There’s no hiding the trapdoor under this rug. As I grab the iron ring to lift the door a chunk of ice from the roof comes crashing down on the back porch steps. For a moment I think someone has pounded on the door with a fist, but the darkness inside the trapdoor pit draws me back to the reality of having to descend the precarious ladder on slippery boots. The only basement light, a bare bulb, is to the left of the ladder, its pull chain an old leather shoelace. I’ll feel better once I get that piece of leather in my hand.
I descend the st
