Pulling out the 1970s fireplace insert a few inches would have been an easy way to expose the crumbling tile and mortar from inside the chimney. The requisite inspection before we closed on the house almost six years ago missed it. The repair estimate would have made Mr. Rogers kick himself.

It was Al who would finally dislodge the feelings of regret that could be triggered by something as mundane as a commercial for cat litter.

“Seven thousand dollars! We were screwed!”

“It happens.” Al said.

“Yeah, but…”

“It happens.”

“Our realtor should have…”

“It happens.” He said.

“Shouldn’t the inspector known to have…”

“You buy a house and the boiler goes out. Cha-ching! You discover that every window sash in the place is completely shot. Cha-ching. The carpet is hiding blemished floors. Cha ching. Welcome to home ownership. Did the inspector do his job? It’s hard to say. Do these things get missed? All of the time. Would it have changed your decision? I doubt it. Did you overpay? Maybe, but probably not by much. Do you love your house? Forget about the rest of it.”

Letting that sink in, while counter to my appetite for impossible justice that can turn back clocks, was a tremendous relief.

While other priorities would compete with it and while Brian never shared my enthusiasm for fixing it nor my feeling that a fireplace you couldn’t use could fill a room with a certain kind of emptiness, this particular restoration project was never a serious point of contention. And yet I had the feeling that when I did finally turn my attention to it, I would need to convince him that the time had come for this investment. I would bring it up and he would make that face.

Convincing anyone of anything can be tricky. It would be better if the worthiness of a good idea were self-evident. It’s particularly tricky for me because giving up persuasion was a deliberate choice prompted by a letter I received out of the blue a long time ago.

An old friend from the Minnesota for Dennis Kucinich campaign wrote to me – one progressive to another – to ask that I join her in supporting Al Franken for the U.S. Senate. She assumed that I would agree that Franken was the real deal while I couldn’t believe that a real Liberal would ever be taken by him. In response I would make the case for a better candidate, one who was actually worthy of the support of anyone who had ever believed that holding rush hour vigils on a bridge in sub-zero weather could transform the bleary-eyed commuters who chugged along on the freeway below.

Hearing the clacking of the keyboard (in these moments I miss the zing of the old fashioned typewriter), Brian quickly sized up the situation and accused me of “bickering on the listserv.” Stretched out on top of the desk in front of me, even the cat paused to question whether this was really a good use of my time, but then quickly dropped it and went back to angling for tummy rubs. So while Brian fried eggs and Lester Young set a mood suitable for dozing tabbies and giant snowflakes drifting to the ground outside the window behind me, I continued to fake my way through a second and third draft of my counter.

My arguments fell flat. Trying to convince someone to see things as I saw them, especially where it came to politicians and the abstractions they espouse, made me feel tired. So I quit. I had a nice breakfast and never thought about it again.

It never came to arm-twisting. One Saturday morning I asked Brian to help me measure the fireplace, which he happily did. I suspect he knew what I had in mind, but I could not detect the dread I had anticipated. Instead of hashing it out, he set to carefully noting the measurements in his famously perfect printing and within an hour we were on Franklin and 29th looking at wood burning stoves.

Recognizing my debilitating hatred for shopping and making purchasing decisions, Brian quietly filled in the gaps so that we might enjoy a fire before the summer rolled around again.

I’m still letting that sink in.

So, we’ve narrowed down our search for a fireplace to two options. Choosing one has been difficult because I like each for different reasons. Feel free to weigh in.

• Jøtul C 350 Winterport
• Vermont Castings Montpelier

Amy worked out of Pistachio Pie. Refreshingly, she never mentioned perms and she didn’t smoke between cuts or during the precious minutes a client might flip through a Cosmo under the dryer. In her element, she had a remarkable ability be present to the person in the chair. She was attentive and connected without relying on standard pleasantries:

“Are you a student?”

“So, what do you do?”

“You married?”

If there is any doubt that Amy was first and foremost a minister to her people, consider the day I was tricked by a brisk morning and found myself embarrassingly overdressed by lunchtime. With the instincts of a nurse she plucked a clean sleeveless blouse from the laundry basket in her car and told me to return it whenever I had the chance. Her kindness might have been awkward had she been anyone else.

Amy cut my hair until I couldn’t afford her anymore.

Enter Jan, Ying’s sister.

Jan was visiting from Hong Kong and travelled with a convincing assortment of tools: combs, shears, clips, razors, and a cape that she snapped open like a real professional and wrapped around my neck in a single and confident sweeping motion. To get around a language barrier, we drew pictures and Ying translated. I said “trim” and this triggered a spirited 20-minute conversation in Mandarin. I didn’t understand a word.

Jan snipped away first on one side and then on the other and back and forth, apparently overcorrecting each time. She consulted with her sister. She consulted with her twin nephews. She consulted with her husband, Gordon. He briefly commandeered the scissors and gave it a go until he gave up and abruptly left with one of the boys.

Then it started to rain. With a half a cut and a mishmash of clips affixed to my head, I darted out to roll up the windows of my car. Like an escaped prisoner returning because she remembered to make the bed, I went back to the house instead of putting the keys into the ignition.

The twin that stayed behind was content to watch TV until a commercial break. He used the interruptions to practice diving off the stairs into the sunken dining room where he would land in a pile at my feet, pop up with the quickness of a push puppet, and pronounce me an ugly witch. Then the stocking-footed child razored past me from several different directions, pleased whenever an especially imaginative approach was also startling.

“Ugly witch! Ugly witch! Ugly witch!”

Cheapness had a price and I was about to pay it.

Ying planted herself in a chair in front of me. Let the slumber party begin!  She leaned forward and said, “Doesn’t your father worry that you’re not married yet?” Until Jan either fixed my hair or shaved me completely bald, I would have to find a way to politely deflect her questions:

“Why don’t you drive a better car?” “Why don’t you wear better clothes?” “Don’t you want a family?” “Aren’t you getting old?” “You need the SUV.” “Can’t you get a better job?” “Being single is no good for the life!” “Nobody want to be alone.”

Two angry lobsters saved me from a poor choice of words.

By Martinvoll (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)

“You are an ugly witch! You are an ugly witch!”

“We’re going to eat you tonight! Yum! Yum!”

They danced and sang and laughed and waved angry lobsters in my face.

Mercifully, Jan announced that she was done. We all – Jan, Ying, Gordon, the boys and the angry lobsters – crammed into the bathroom where I examined myself in the mirror and the sisters marveled at their work. Ying directed me to go home and wash my hair. “If you see anything sticking out, just cut it off,” she said. “I got to go to work.”

Later my friend Barb told me that I looked like a china doll “as cute as a bug,” she said. Her husband joked, “They figured that if they have to learn your damn language, you can wear their bob. Hey, what bowl did they use?” Then he reached over with a pair of kitchen shears and snipped off a piece of hair that was sticking out.

It could be Valentine’s Day before tinsel (and somehow even a sprig of mistletoe) will be glaringly out of place, when I might consider taking down the tree that had kindly softened the hard edges of winter with a timely dash of cheer. To get through a nipping January, Santa and I started having breakfast by the tree. We’d sit at the brass coffee table, I in my robe and slippers and he already dressed for the day in a delicate square of tinfoil that played off the brass and shimmered in the dancing light of two glitter-dusted candles, a pillar of red and a pillar of gold, gifts included in my sister’s Christmas package with the cranberry-colored afghan she had crocheted in the weeks following her appendectomy.

Santa fortified me. He encouraged me to bundle up, to venture out into the darkness down six icy blocks to the bus stop, to board the #21, and to go to work. A man of few words, Santa’s rosy little face was so reassuring that I briefly considered stuffing him in my coat pocket and taking him wherever I went. Having a Santa in your pocket can evoke sympathy in our worst moments. That’s not a jackass jamming up traffic! Maybe there’s a casserole in the trunk! A bee in the car! Maybe there’s a jilted man at the wheel! It doesn’t really matter. He obviously needs a break!

One day for no reason at all, I bit off Santa’s head. A jolt of regret delivered me from a mindless state the very second I could feel his tiny hollow neck give way. But it was too late. Once a bright-eyed visage that beamed with kindness that could fill the cracks of a broken soul, Santa’s face was now a distorted crumple of red, gold and green staring back at me from a crooked eyeball that had somehow survived the unprovoked attack. To make things worse, I couldn’t bring myself to eat the rest of him. So he sat there, a mangled freak of nature that would not let me forget what I had done. I had ruined Santa and now he was ruining breakfast. Looking quite normal from behind, I turned the decapitated Santa away from me. But this only punctuated the deed. Desperate for some relief, I made a confession to my sweetheart who understood where anyone else might have taken my sobbing to mean that I had accidentally backed over the cat… or something worse.

The next morning I found that Santa had been restored. While his battle scars might have been apparent, his little face had been carefully folded back into shape such that he seemed like his old self again. Santa could have justified a punishment. He could have whipped up a guilt trip, or held me at a safe distance. He could have stewed while pretending to be fine. He might have abandoned me in an unforgiving state of limbo where there is no love and not enough anger to find it. But Santa isn’t like that. Instead, after a full recovery he resumed with our morning ritual with a deep and fearless vulnerability that humbled me in my good moments and frightened me in my weaker ones. And while at first I couldn’t be sure, I eventually came to trust that Santa was for real