Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

As I went downward, the cold increased noticeably. I had not gone far when the lower part of my face became stuffy and numb and I realized it was freezing. I pinched it & slapped at it, without any success; then I pulled my coat up around it, and breathed into the little space thus enclosed, and in a few seconds the skin relaxed and became moist. (Officially it was 14° below)
The bus came along just before I got to the N.Y.C. viaduct, but I was too near home to bother taking it.
After lunch, the problem of thawing out the back water-pipes and investigating the source of the dampness in the girls room (all turned to white frost this morning) confronted me. At Nenner’s, where I went for kerosene, I found a state of confusion which is hopelessly known as a “mad-house” – Nenner was trying to thaw out his water pipes, using a blow-torch; people whose cars had frozen up, kept accumulating by the minute, and seemed to be constantly milling about, excited by the very fact of the cold wave. The climax came when, as I had privately expected, the water-pipes cracked from the too sudden heat, and water commenced pouring all over the floor; Nenner had to march outside somewhere to turn the water off.
By this time, I felt rather diffident about injecting my need for kerosene into Nenner’s problems, but fortunately young Westphal, who frequently help out, was there, and I got the oil from him.
The worst thing about thawing out our pipes is simply the discomfort of crawling in under the house on my stomach. Otherwise, it is not too bad, for I simply light the oil stove and then wait for enough warm air to accumulate, to thaw the