Dreams of Warm Feet

An epiphany: a sudden insight

For several years I’ve wanted a warm spot.

We keep the thermostat at 60 dF during the winters. Our house in Kansas was tight, so 60 dF meant 60 dF. Our house in Nebraska is drafty. A reading of 60 dF at the thermostat can accompany a 40 dF draft on the couch.

The idea of a hundred-watt light bulb as a heat source appealed to me; they give off as much heat as an adult human.

The challenge was how to I warm myself without burning myself, or the house.

My response to a desire is to design and re-design the project in my head.

By this process of redesign, “a warm spot” had come to mean a wooden chair with a glass and wire-shielded, outdoor light fixture attached to the underside of the seat: I think they are called “explosion proof” fixtures. There would be a snap-on skirt attached to the back and sides of the chair. The rheostat is a slide type, so I can tell by feel thru the covers how much power I am putting to the bulb. The rheostat is attached to the right side of the seat, toward the front.

In my imagination, when I sit on my warm spot, I have a blanket across my lap. The blanket combines with the chair skirting to enclose my legs and feet in a tent. A wonderfully luxurious, heated tent.

As I was taking my shower - my long hot shower - this morning I had an epiphany. The chair of my dreams must be a rocking chair. A rocking chair could be occupied for longer periods. The rocking action would reduce the pain of peripheral neuropathy. The rocking would satisfy the needs of restless legs. The rocking would prevent blood clots in the legs.

Oh, this “warm spot” idea is not new. I cannot claim it for my own.

What we Westerners didn’t know is that that the traditional, low Japanese dining table has a hole under it where the diner’s legs dangled thru the floor. In cold weather there was a brazier under that table, too. The tablecloth sealed in the heat. The diner’s legs were in a heated tent.

Of course, that meant modest girls sat cross-legged in the company of strange men, but that story is for somebody else’s blog. These days my fantasies are confined to my own warm feet.