For forty years I lived on the mountain without electricity. I heated the house with a wood-burning stove, used kerosene lamps for light, and had a small propane cookstove.
With no motor noises, it was blissfully quiet at my house.
But I paid a price for that blissful silence. Kerosene lamps are messy and smelly and take constant work refilling the lamps, trimming wicks, cleaning chimneys. I hauled propane tanks up the hill on my shoulder. I stacked firewood for the winter, then brought it by the armload into the house, trailing bark and woods debris onto the floor. I chopped kindling. I took laundry to the laundromat.
Twelve years ago, when I moved into a new house on the mountain, with electricity, life became smoother and easier. I was happy not to be dealing with fuel. The noise of the washing machine was worth the convenience of washing clothes at home. The refrigerator sits behind a closed door, so its occasional noise is muffled. Life on the mountain was still pretty quiet.
A heat pump, I was told, is efficient. It will cool the house as well as heat it. Its hum, I was told, is minimal. Besides, I was finally told (with a bit of exasperation), I can use it only when I want it, with the expectation, I think, that I would want to use it all the time, given its convenience.
Certainly it is convenient to heat the house at the click of a button or to program the machine to come on automatically every morning, but I still find myself performing the familiar morning ritual, kneeling in front of the stove to light the fire, coaxing the flame into a red-hot blaze.
The hum of the heat pump, I'm finding, is bothersome, after all. I like the silence of the woods around me. I don't ever want to go back to kerosene lamps and propane tanks—I am grateful every day for my electricity. But I'm in no hurry to trade my ritualistic wood-burning stove for the hum of the heat pump. The heat pump is there when I need it (and I'll probably really need it for cooling the house in the summer), and that's satisfaction enough.
The hum of the heat pump, I'm finding, is bothersome, after all. I like the silence of the woods around me. I don't ever want to go back to kerosene lamps and propane tanks—I am grateful every day for my electricity. But I'm in no hurry to trade my ritualistic wood-burning stove for the hum of the heat pump. The heat pump is there when I need it (and I'll probably really need it for cooling the house in the summer), and that's satisfaction enough.
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