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Mr. Sparky
Sep. 29th, 2010 01:01 pmYesterday afternoon, I was in the basement working on the week's laundry. My grandson was having his school picture taken the next day and I wanted to be sure that he had something decent to wear.
The washer and dryer are along the same wall as the furnace, which has been turned off for the summer. And there's a sort of narrow aisle you have to negotiate, past the furnace, to get to them.
I had just put a partial load in the washer and was walking back past the furnace, to grab a few more things from upstairs, when I happened to glance overhead at the ductwork.
From the top of the furnace, there's a 4-6 inch vent pipe to the chimney that passes right below the hot air duct. In fact, the geniuses who installed this marvel of modern engineering, back in the 1950s, routed the vent pipe so close to the ductwork that they're actually touching.
Now, in the 25+ years that we've lived in this dump, I've walked by this contraption a bazillion times--that's an engineering term for a very large but indeterminent number--and never conciously looked up at it.
This time, for whatever reason, I did and what I saw shocked the hell out of me. (This statement won't realize it's potential as a really bad joke unless, and until, the reader decides to waste even more time by reading further.)
In the shadowy recess where the round vent pipe contacted the bottom surface of the hot air duct was a distinctly glowing pinpoint of light. If it had been the searchlight on the sheriff's "ghetto bird" (that would be "helicopter" for those living outside the urban war zone), it couldn't have stopped me more suddenly.
Fortunately, even a former English major from a small state college on one of the lesser Great Lakes could tell it was an electrical arc of some kind. I also quickly deduced that, since I'd allowed a leaking, out-dated battery to ruin my multi-meter some years earlier, I would now have to employ the most basic of diagnostic techniques.
I'd have to touch either the vent pipe or the furnace duct with my tongue while standing in a puddle of water. Just kidding--but I did pass my hand above the surface of each to determine how much heat was being generated before rather gingerly touching them.
Turns out it wasn't much. But after satisfying myself that I wouldn't be knocked off the step stool which I'd pulled up for a closer look, I tried moving the round vent pipe back and forth a few times to be sure it wasn't just some sort of random static charge.
It wasn't. As the pipe moved in relation to the duct, it generated a minute blue flame across the area of contact. If I'd had my meter, I could've checked the voltage being conducted between the two pieces. And if it were somewhere in the range of 110 to 120 volts, I'd know for sure that I was dealing with house current.
Still, what I had was scary enough that I immediately began an Internet search for electrical contractors in the area. And the first one to pop up on my screen was--and this is the honest-to-God's truth--"Mr. Sparky."
The first thing I did, after I stopped laughing, was mop up the coffee I'd spit all over the computer screen. Then, following a few moments of quiet reflection, I prayed to Vishnu that this guy was better at house wiring than he was at marketing. (You know, for the sake of the wife and children who might be depending on him.) I mean, c'mon, my whole purpose in being there was to get RID of "Mr. Sparky," not invite him and his toolbox full of trouble into my house.
After that, I decided that since random wasn't working for me I'd go ahead and sign up for "Angie's List," which I did. And I'm happy to report that I immediately experienced a sense of vindication for having spent the $23 for a two-year subscription. Because "Mr. Sparky" was nowhere on the list...
LPK
LiveJournal
9.29.2010
The washer and dryer are along the same wall as the furnace, which has been turned off for the summer. And there's a sort of narrow aisle you have to negotiate, past the furnace, to get to them.
I had just put a partial load in the washer and was walking back past the furnace, to grab a few more things from upstairs, when I happened to glance overhead at the ductwork.
From the top of the furnace, there's a 4-6 inch vent pipe to the chimney that passes right below the hot air duct. In fact, the geniuses who installed this marvel of modern engineering, back in the 1950s, routed the vent pipe so close to the ductwork that they're actually touching.
Now, in the 25+ years that we've lived in this dump, I've walked by this contraption a bazillion times--that's an engineering term for a very large but indeterminent number--and never conciously looked up at it.
This time, for whatever reason, I did and what I saw shocked the hell out of me. (This statement won't realize it's potential as a really bad joke unless, and until, the reader decides to waste even more time by reading further.)
In the shadowy recess where the round vent pipe contacted the bottom surface of the hot air duct was a distinctly glowing pinpoint of light. If it had been the searchlight on the sheriff's "ghetto bird" (that would be "helicopter" for those living outside the urban war zone), it couldn't have stopped me more suddenly.
Fortunately, even a former English major from a small state college on one of the lesser Great Lakes could tell it was an electrical arc of some kind. I also quickly deduced that, since I'd allowed a leaking, out-dated battery to ruin my multi-meter some years earlier, I would now have to employ the most basic of diagnostic techniques.
I'd have to touch either the vent pipe or the furnace duct with my tongue while standing in a puddle of water. Just kidding--but I did pass my hand above the surface of each to determine how much heat was being generated before rather gingerly touching them.
Turns out it wasn't much. But after satisfying myself that I wouldn't be knocked off the step stool which I'd pulled up for a closer look, I tried moving the round vent pipe back and forth a few times to be sure it wasn't just some sort of random static charge.
It wasn't. As the pipe moved in relation to the duct, it generated a minute blue flame across the area of contact. If I'd had my meter, I could've checked the voltage being conducted between the two pieces. And if it were somewhere in the range of 110 to 120 volts, I'd know for sure that I was dealing with house current.
Still, what I had was scary enough that I immediately began an Internet search for electrical contractors in the area. And the first one to pop up on my screen was--and this is the honest-to-God's truth--"Mr. Sparky."
The first thing I did, after I stopped laughing, was mop up the coffee I'd spit all over the computer screen. Then, following a few moments of quiet reflection, I prayed to Vishnu that this guy was better at house wiring than he was at marketing. (You know, for the sake of the wife and children who might be depending on him.) I mean, c'mon, my whole purpose in being there was to get RID of "Mr. Sparky," not invite him and his toolbox full of trouble into my house.
After that, I decided that since random wasn't working for me I'd go ahead and sign up for "Angie's List," which I did. And I'm happy to report that I immediately experienced a sense of vindication for having spent the $23 for a two-year subscription. Because "Mr. Sparky" was nowhere on the list...
LPK
LiveJournal
9.29.2010
