"She's coming through this weekend. She and Paul, her husband. They go to Quebec every year."
"Good eating in Quebec."
"You bet," Oliver said. "She likes to dress up. They have a good time."
"Wow," George said. "I don't think my mom has bought a dress in twenty years. Says she's too old for that foolishness."
"My mom is too old, but it doesn't stop her." He looked at the furnace.
"So, what are we doing?"
"We're set," George said. They crossed the loft, and he handed Oliver a propane torch. "I'll turn on the gas at the main tank. You light it. There's the blower valve." He pointed to a round handle mounted between the blower and the pipe that led to the furnace. Oliver lit the torch and knelt by the furnace. George stood by the propane tank. "Hope this works. You ready?"
"Do it."
George opened the line, and Oliver angled the torch tip down into the furnace. Nothing happened for several moments. There was a whooshing sound, and George said, "Holy Mama!" A blue flame, the size of a beach ball, was bouncing under the wooden ceiling joists. Oliver concentrated. Air. He reached back and grabbed the blower valve, twisting it counter-clockwise. Almost immediately, the blue flame lowered. He continued opening the valve. The flame pirouetted irregularly down an invisible column, drawn toward the furnace.
"Air," he shouted. "Not enough air until it got way the hell up there."
"Keep going," George said.