Gratefully, my lunch today is heated in the microwave. And gratefully, it is hot. Mondays are a late day for me. Rather than come in at 11 am for an eight-hour day, I just come a little bit later and make up the difference somewhere else. At 7:30 am - the time I would normally be heading out the door - the phone rang. I was snuggled warm under the covers reading, Thomas having already stirred and headed off to work. There was another blanket of snow laid over our part of the world, and everything was chilly.
I hustled to the phone, expecting it to be Daniel checking in to see if I was heading out for my commute (more on that another time), but it was someone from town. She'd walked by the church and office where I work and smelled gas. I am not the gas company, nor am I a dispatch. I am glad she let me know, but I wouldn't be in town for another ninety minutes, and there are protocol for reporting smelling gas. She said she'd take care of it.
I hustled back to bed and my book. Once comfortable and cozy, the phone rang again. I hopped up one more time to another call from her. Who does she call? Her several year old phone book for Taos didn't have the number. Would I want to call? I gave her a phone number from our phone book, but suggested it would be more appropriate for her to report her own experience. I'm now wondering if that was the wrong answer.
Four and a half hours later, I am huddled over my bowl of noodles wearing my hat and fingerless gloves, a wool sweater over my down vest. It is about 55 degrees, and it won't be long before I can see my breath. The gas was turned off, and the servicemen left. There was nobody here that early to let them in and check things out. When the news reached a council member with a key, she offered to meet them here, but they didn't show. Forty minutes away on a good day, they drove to Raton to deal with a line that had been hit and was spraying gas. No sign of them yet.
Praying for heat....