Footprints in the snow
I arrived home before dark, and was immediately struck by the footprints, in the snow, leading around the end of the house and into the back yard. At this time of year, there’s not much of interest back there; a pool with a thin layer of ice, an abandoned barbecue, a stiff owl that waits for stupid starlings.
The footprints came and went (or the corollary) and I ramped up my curious sense enough to check inside the house for anything new, strange or startling. Nada… When son #3 arrived, I queried him about the tracks, and he jumped to an obvious conclusion – the meter reader.
You see, in spite of all the other technological advances, we still have the same electrical meter that was installed by the hydro people almost a quarter century ago. It works, and they can use it as evidence when the bill is mailed out each month. We owe them, in return for that little gang of electrons that race back and forth in our wires, 60 times every second.
That one isn’t ours (technically, none are: the electrical company owns them and simply uses them to prove a point), but we have one very much like it, with the little wheel that spins constantly, despite my best efforts to turn off lights and greedy appliances. The technology is old but reliable, and the utility makes enough money from us that they can afford to send someone here, every month, to record the progress we’ve made in keeping them solvent.
There aren’t many people that “deliver” to the house any more. We have a running account with the milk guy, and the paper man wakes the dog every morning. Other than that, there’s just the representative of Reddy Kilowatt that bothers to visit.
