Changing With the Seasons

When I was a kid, summer had officially arrived when Dad put the window fan in Mom and Dad's bedroom window. This was not a fan like today's, where you toss one of those "dime-a dozen" box fan units on the window sill. This was a monster that looked like it had been modified using old airplane parts. It was housed in a heavy gauge, white wire steel cage that had to be bolted to the window. Inside this protective cage was a belt driven meat cutter that could slice off your arm like it was a stick of cheese. When this baby was cranked up, you could hear it down the street.

For most of the year, the fan was parked in the back of the attic, past the Christmas decorations and way past the suitcase filled with Halloween costumes. Moving this beast required something just shy of a fork lift. It was made even trickier by having to squeeze around all the stuff tucked away, while dodging the low eaves. More than one skull was cracked on one of those roof joists... and Dad reminded me of this pretty much every year. I have no clue how Dad did it before I was old enough to help (I mean really help), but he did it somehow. Later, it became my job. As I wrestled it out of the attic, Dad would carry the cord like a dog leash, telling me things like, "Watch your head!"... usually right after I whacked it.

I'm reminded of this because the other day, Jake carried the air conditioner up from the basement for me while I gave helpful instructions such as: "Don't hurt your back. Lift with your knees! Watch out for the cord!" and "Set it down gently!".

Good thing I was there.

Dad would have been proud.