We're into our 26th year of living on the Little-House-on-the-Corner.
You pick up on things after awhile.
When I get up for the 3AM stumble to the Reading Room, I can tell about how cold it is by looking at the back door.
The back door, like the front door, is the original door, from back when the mastadons migrated through. Solid painted wood with a great, sieve-like seal that leaks air.
If the back door window is 1/2 frosted over, it's below zero.
If it's completely frosted over, it is definitely too late to bring in the brass monkey. A minimum of somewhere in the 15-20 below range.
Or worse.
I turn on the outside light to see the stick-on thermometer on the kitchen window.
30 below. Subtract 12.
18 below. Yep. The back door still works.
As I pull out of the driveway, I glance at the exhaust port for our pitiful little gas wall furnace.
Inside, it's a medium brown metal rectangle that hangs on the wall with all the panache and joie d'vivre of government office furniture.
Outside, it's sticks out like a pie plate with gills. The exhaust leaks out the gills and goes up the side of the house.
The glazing of frost up the side of the house will also tell you how cold it is. Like an upside down bearded thermometer. Kind of.
Below freezing, the vent wears a slight fu manchu. Upside down.
At zero or a little below, it sports a vertical van-dyke.
At 15 below or better (or is it worse?), it has a Rip VanWinkle of thick, glistening frost that goes up to the gable end.
Yeah. Lots of ways to tell how cold it is at our house.
But once you're outta bed, it really isn't that hard to tell.
At all.