The Basics

How to fix things

A few years back, a childhood friend in L.A. sent me a text laughing at some idiot from his work who hadn’t changed his HVAC filters—for FOUR WHOLE YEARS. He couldn’t believe it.

What on earth are HVAC filters, I wondered? Is that a thing? I did the math on how long we’d lived in this house, the second house Emma and I had owned together. Eleven years.

“Insane!” I responded.

“Theoretically,” I then texted my pal, “how bad would it be if he waited much, much longer?”

He just sent the crying laughing emoji in response, so I did some googling. Mold, bacteria, decreased lifespan of equipment, higher energy costs. Not good, I thought. But who tells people about these things? How do other folks just seem to know? I always feel like I’m behind, trying to catch up.

Back in 2006, Emma and I moved out of our rented Brooklyn apartment and relocated Upstate, homeowners for the first time. Things were great for a few weeks, until we woke up one February morning to a frosty bedroom, our breath visible when we spoke.

In the city, we’d just turn up the thermostat when we wanted it warmer. I located and tapped the thermostat, which looked tip-top to me. It was set at 68. I flicked it off and back on, but nothing happened.

“Maybe it’s the heater,” Emma said.

I plonked down to the basement, and found a large vertical cylinder against the wall. I rapped on it. No signs of life. There was a decal with a phone number for a heating guy, so I called him and told him our heat was broken. He was there in minutes.

“Hey buddy,” he called up from the basement, “You know you’re out of oil, right?” I could hear him chuckling to himself.

“Right… oil,” I said to Emma, who was shivering in her robe in the kitchen. “We need oil for heat. It’s not just the thermostat that heats the house, apparently.”

The guys at the contractor counter in our local hardware store sound like they’ve smoked for a million years. They talk in fractions that I don’t understand. I don’t know why, but I’m very keen for them to think I know what I’m talking about. I want to seem capable.

Whenever I’m in there, there’s often this one customer chatting at the counter, a bearish titan of a man who looks like he demos houses with his fists. It’s always in front of him that I’m called up to ask something dumb.

“Do you have HVAC filters?” I say. The counter guy comes back with the usual baffling question, something like: “You want the three-eight or the double-O?” I feel helpless.

I should just come clean here. Let them know I’m not a guy’s guy. I don’t watch football. I was raised by an Australian mom. Whatever men were around didn’t seem to know anything about fixing anything. They mostly just left things broken. I was basically raised by wolves. So, what actually is an HVAC filter, and how bad is it if you never replace it for eleven years?

I don’t say this though. Instead I say, “I think I need the three-eight?” The big dude next to me frowns and cocks his head, looking doubtful. “Or possibly the double-O could be good?”

They set me straight, and back at home, I figure out where the filter is: top of the stairs, in the hallway ceiling. I get a ladder from the basement, and after some wrangling, I get the old filter out, which is full of a dark green fuzzy funk that I will not be telling the guys about the next time I’m in the hardware store. I trot it out of the house, and chuck this foul situation into the trash, slamming the lid. It’s like it never happened.

I slide the fresh, clean filter in, and screw the vent cover back on. Standing at the bottom of the ladder, I feel absolutely handy. Look how unbelievably DIY I am. Then I notice I’ve screwed the vent cover on backwards. Not a problem. I climb back up and get it flipped and screwed back in. The ladder’s still up when Emma comes home.

“What’s with the ladder?” she asks, when I find her in the kitchen.

“Just replaced the HVAC filter,” I say casually.

“Nice,” she says, zero percent impressed.

“Yep. Super important thing to do, every few months,” I say.

I make a mental note to tell the kids this crucial bit of life wisdom. I don’t want them wandering the earth out there, unaware of basic things. That’s no way for a person to live.

“Well,” Emma says, pouring her tea, “I’m happy you’re on it.”