Our back garden path, currently.
I just checked the level on our propane tank, and it’s down to nine percent. Just a few days ago, when I started this essay, it was eleven percent. Eek!
Propane powers our stove (both range top and oven), and also our water heater. One of the first things we learned when we moved from a city to this rural island was how different the utilities work out here, and what a bummer it would be to run out of propane.
(And how important it is to have the septic tank pumped regularly, but that’s another essay for another day.)
Lest you think this is about to be a complaint about our negligent propane-delivery company: it is not. This is something we have done to ourselves, quite deliberately. In fact, the gas truck has come by twice in the last month or so, and we’ve sent it away.
Why would we do such a foolish thing? Well, you see, we need to have the tank moved. And the tank-moving fellow made it very clear that the tank should be as close to empty as possible. Propane is heavy, and also, you know, flammable. The less of it that gets picked up and tumbled about on its way to its new location, the better.
So. As I write this, Tank Moving Day is two days off. Nine percent should be fine. Yep. Perfectly fine.