Screens Out, Storm Windows Up in October

In October, on the morning when the first hard frost whitens the porch rail, the old house trades its screens for storm windows. The changeover is done in an order that has not varied in a lifetime—screens down, glass washed, storms carried up, each one fitted and fastened before the next window is touched.

Choosing the day

The work waits for a dry stretch. A storm window hung in a warm rain traps water between its glass and the window's, and the haze stays in the gap until spring. So the person who keeps the house reads the sky instead of the calendar: clear nights, a frost, and the leaves down off the maples. The day starts early, while the sills are still cold, and by late afternoon the doors are closed and the furnace runs.

Taking down the screens

The screens come out from inside the rooms. In most windows a spring latch or a pull tab holds the screen in its track; the keeper lifts the tab, tilts the top of the screen toward the room, and lifts it clear of the sash. One screen in every house sticks. The wood has swollen in the summer damp, or a coat of paint has grown over the edge of the frame, and it is eased out with both hands, a few inches at a time, until the frame gives with a creak and a small shower of paint flakes. The free screens are leaned against the wall under each sill, still paired to the windows they came from, and they take up the morning light like dull gray panels.

Washing the bare glass

With the screens out, each pane is bare for the first time since May. The glass is wiped with a cloth dipped in water with a splash of vinegar in it—plain water when the vinegar is out—and dried with a wad of newspaper until a fingertip drawn across it squeaks. The sills are brushed clean of fly husks, grit, and the last thin skins of leaves that blew in through the open windows. Anything left on the glass when the storm goes up stays visible in the dead air behind it all winter, so the work is slow and done facing the light.

Fetching the storms

The storms are kept where the house keeps its cold-weather things: stacked flat in a dry corner of the basement or shut in a cabinet under the porch. They are not interchangeable. Each one is marked—a penciled number on the top rail, a scrap of tape, a faded initial—and each fits only the window it was cut for. The keeper reads the marks and carries the storms up one at a time, a hand on each side of the frame so the weight of the glass does not pull the corners out of square.

Fitting the storm windows

Most storms are set from outside. One hand steadies the frame, the other holds the ladder rail; on the upstairs windows an arm comes through the open sash from inside and takes the weight while the frame is guided into its opening. The storm goes in bottom edge first, tips up past the stop, and settles back against the casing. When it is right, the two side stiles run parallel to the window frame, the lower rail sits square on the sill, and the gap between storm and casing is even on both sides.

Turning the catches

Old storms are held by hardware that changes by decade: wing nuts on threaded studs, spring-loaded catches, a bronze hook that drops into an eye. Each catch is turned or pushed until it is solid, then the frame is tested with a push at the corners. The frame should not move. If it rattles against the stop, a thin shim is tapped in with the heel of the hand; if it binds, the catch is backed off until the frame hangs free but firm. On the last window, the same two hands go down the row and turn every catch again.

Putting the screens away

The screens are carried to the basement rack and stood on edge, tight together, so their frames cannot warp. On each one the spring latch is checked, and a drop of oil goes onto the stiff ones. When the last screen is in the rack, the keeper walks out to the road and looks back at the house. Every window on the front shows glass, not screen, and every frame lies flat against its casing. The last storm window sits square in its opening, its catches turned.