Sweet Wifey was feeling a little chilly last night, so she tweaked the thermostat up a notch. It hadn't seemed to help by the time she came to bed, though. She was uncharacteristically cuddly.
By the time we woke up at 5:30, or so, it was apparent that the heat wasn't working at all. It was close to 50 degrees in the house. I wandered down to the furnace room in my slippers and opened the front panel. Yup... it's a furnace, alright. Look at all those thingy-ma-bobs and whozits. I feebly probed here and there, hoping to find some loose thing I could tighten. No dice.
I turned the breaker off and on, hoping to re-boot like a computer. Nope. Still nothing.
It's 5:30, and I'm not a morning person. My mind is sluggish and I can't remember who's supposed to be the Patron Saint of Furnaces, or of... Warm Things. So, seeing as I'm a Dad trying to keep his family warm, I punt to good old, reliable St, Joseph. My hands are freezing, my tools are freezing and I'm sitting here looking at a very modern, inert furnace, without a clue.
So, I turn off the whole business... flip the breaker, turn the thermostat to "off", turn down the temperature setting all the way, and wait for a few minutes. Then, I turn on the breaker, turn the thermostat to "heat" and slowly turn up the temperature setting.
I shuffle back downstairs and crouch again before the beast, flashlight in hand. Come on baby... come on...
Blessed blue flame becomes visible through the little porthole. Yesssss! By the time the kids woke up, the house was relatively toasty again.
Thanks, St. Joseph, and I mean that.