Every house has its story. What's yours?

It began with a gentle whine, so slight that it required the temporary suspension of respiration and a fractional tilt of the head at just the right angle to be sure I was even hearing it. This was followed by a wide range of puzzled expressions, ranging from game show contestant to village idiot (admittedly not a large leap) as I wandered the house trying to pinpoint it. The refrigerator? No. That whines too, but at a lower frequency. This whine was so high that it was just within the range of my early-middle-aged auditory receptors.

I initially decided to approach the problem with a method that has served me well in the past with such issues as unexpected kidney pain, unexplained hair growth on the tongue, and minor leaks in the roof: ignore it and hope that it goes away on its own. The whine, I reasoned, was of such a high frequency that in a few years, given traditional patterns of hearing loss in connection with age, I probably wouldn't even be able to hear it at all. Problem solved!

But then the ghosts' whines gradually increased in volume, and I was forced to proceed to Plan B: Action.

First I had to conclusively identify the source. By dint of chasing wife and children from the house and ensuring the dog was sleeping in a position that would minimize her snoring, I achieved a level of silence that allowed for more rigorous investigation. The results pointed definitively at the heating system, specifically a collection of radiators that carried warm water from the heat pump (luftvärmepump, in Swedish – some specific, highly efficient form of heating system that involves running outside air, even cold air, through some sort of compressor system and thereby extracting heat. Witchcraft, I believe, is the layman's explanation.) The outdoor unit is visible below.

I confirmed the whine's source by squatting down in one of the many highly undignified positions every homeowner finds him- or herself in on a regular basis when investigating home malfunctions, and pressing my ear to the radiator itself. The whine definitely came from there, and the radiator was definitely, as my ear instantly reported, hot.

Summoning the lessons of a fair amount of experience with computers and other bafflingly complex electronic gadgets, I first tried a method nearly as time-tested as the Ignore Procedure: turning things off and on. It generally solves most problems on my computer, iPod, cell phone, DVD recorder, digital TV decoder, and dog. When she wakes up, she's good as new.

So I roamed the house again, screwing all the radiators that were off into the on position, and vice versa, and left it for a couple of days. But the whine, while slightly altered in pitch and with the addition of a gurgling sound, as though the ghosts were gargling, retained virtually all of its increasingly insanity-inducing volume. So I tried turning them all off again, which helped slightly, but temporarily. Then I tried resetting the whole system, which, hooray!, made things blissfully and peacefully quiet—for exactly 300 seconds, until it turned itself back on. Whining.

I should explain that my previous house was heated with simple electric radiators—no circulating water at all. The most complex function one ever needed to perform with that system was to turn the thermostat either up or down to increase or lower the heat, respectively; or, for a really advanced maneuver, to tell the system when it was nighttime or when one was away from the house, so that it could lower the temperature accordingly. After ten years in that house, I was beginning to feel that I had more or less mastered its mysteries. Then we moved.

The new house not only has this frightening array of water-bearing radiators and outdoor heat pump, but also a heated swimming pool connected to the same system. This system, for one as mechanically inept as I, presents a terrifying prospect when it's working precisely as it should. As far as error-correction goes, I'm completely out of my depth.

Naturally, during my turning-things-off-and-on explorations, I tried disabling the warm water supply to the pool, but that didn't help either, as far as I could tell. Turning the pool's filter system off and on also failed to provide relief. So, my capacity to conceive creative solutions to the issue exhausted, I gave up the chase once more and returned to wait-and-see mode.

That mode worked fine for about another week, until last weekend when a gaggle of guests were due for a nice swim in the pool and a complex dinner I had planned involving fresh fish, pancetta, pine nuts, prosciutto, scallops, and other yummy things that needed to be filéed, curled, wrapped, sautéed, barbecued, and otherwise slapped into shape in a highly labor-intensive and time-consuming manner.

The heating system chose that morning to conk out altogether. I first discovered this while attempting to shower, perhaps six hours before the guests were due. Chilly. Problem.

So down to the basement for another unwilling investigation. The heating system has its own NASA-style control panel which, like the Space Shuttle's main console, blinks red and emits cryptic messages when it is kaput. In this case it was complaining of a "pressostat hög" error, which, with my excellent Swedish, I was instantly able to divine meant that the "pressostat", whatever the hell that is, was high.

We'd actually received this error on previous occasions – generally when the pool filter had become clogged, restricting the flow of cool water back into the heating system -- and turning the system off and on again (see? The universal remedy) had universally remedied it. Not this time, though. Despite repeated attempts to turn it off and on, it ran for no more than a few seconds before tripping the error again.

Well. The flaw in the system had now unfortunately progressed past the Ignore as necessary stage to the Homeowner must take immediate action to prevent undesired explosion of house stage, a stage I sincerely abhor due to the fact that, not having a clue what action to immediately take, I am left feeling like a six-year-old tasked with disarming a nuclear device.

A little reading on the internet turned up the issue of air pockets in the radiators, which I had also encountered in my Space Shuttle owner's manual but not given much thought to. These pockets of air, I discovered, could lead to unwanted noises, whining, shrieking, or banging, just as they would in a colicky infant.

To remove any such air pockets, I discovered on further investigation and with the help of input from my friend Jimm, all I needed was a little Mickey Mouse-eared square radiator key with which one could release air from each of the radiators (handy release valve shown below), thus allowing them to refill with water and making the universe an altogether better, friendlier, and more wholesome place in which to live.

Did I have a radiator key? I did not, as a lengthy search of all likely household nooks and crannies eventually revealed.

Off to the hardware store – a behemoth impersonal hateful franchised unhelpful mega-hardware store -- for another fruitless rummage through the ninth level of Consumer Hell in search of The Key. I finally found someone whom I could ask for directions to the presumptive radiator key section, and he sent me off to a shelf that had a large collection of items that looked strikingly similar to that which I needed, but that weren't the right thing at all. Not even close. These were keys used for opening and closing outdoor hose connections. Vindictive bastard.

I stormed toward the exit, but something in my haunted Unabomber visage caught the attention of another employee who was striding briskly in the opposite direction, and he asked if I needed assistance. Incredible! More incredibly, he knew precisely where to find the little radiator keys, escorted my to that aisle some kilometers from where the first imbecile had sent me, and showed me the little keys hanging there in their jaunty plastic packages. My gratitude was, of course, limitless and nearly tear-filled. I paid my Swedish equivalent of two dollars and drove home, glancing sidelong at the key on the passenger seat every few seconds as though it were a vial containing the panacea to all world ills.

Home again, the anxious hours ticking away, and a rapid scurry from radiator to radiator, rag and radiator key in hand, to empty those pesky troublesome air pockets. Hmm. There doesn't seem to be any air in this radiator – I'll try another. Nope, none here either. All I'm getting is water. Nothing here! Shit. After five or six tries of the most likely suspects – those whose whining was most acute -- I came to the conclusion that this air pocket theory could not explain the current disaster. Crap. Crap. Crap.

Helplessly bereft of all capacity for further thought or independent action, at this point I turned to the telephone, first trying to reach the previous owners of the house to check whether anything quite like this had ever happened before, and, if so, whether they could tell me which button to push to make the system spontaneously heal itself. They weren't home.

I then proceeded to the next stage of desperation – attempting to locate a plumber who wasn't yet on vacation and who could make an emergency house call at ruinous expense. Luckily, I failed. Late August, if I'd care to wait. No, thank you.

I then managed to make contact with the company that had actually installed the system. Remarkably, they had not yet left for vacation, although I got the distinct impression that the man I talked to was wearing fishing boots and a floppy hat, rod and reel in hand.

In the course of the 60-second conversation, I was informed that the system, like, apparently, every radiator system ever installed in this century or the previous two anywhere on the planet Earth or its immediate solar system, required occasional refilling. Who knew? Furthermore, I was told that the system included a so-called "expansions-kärl", or expansion tank (roughly) with which the water pressure within the heating system could be regulated. This container thingamabob, a largish red orb the function of which I had occasionally distractedly ruminated on in an abstract sense, was meant to maintain a pressure of 1 bar as displayed on an adjoining manometer. I found it while still on the phone and checked: it was at 0.3. Oops. Lesson learned.

I hung up the phone with some elation. Simple problem, simple remedy. All I needed to do was to find the little lever that would refill water to the system, pressure would return to normal, and vroom! the heater would begin merrily churning out warm water once again.

I scurried back down to the utility room and began eagerly searching for the lever that would, quickly and simply, solve all of my problems. There were quite a few of them, I immediately discovered. Many, many levers, in all imaginable shapes and sizes. Moreover, most of the ones I discovered didn't appear to be connected in any meaningful sense with the expansion thingamabob. Or, rather, everything appear to be connected to everything else.

That, however, didn't stop me. Inspired as I was by the sense that the resolution of the issue was in sight, I fiddled and twisted and turned every one I could find, waited for a few moments for any visible evidence of a pressure change on the manometer, then, seeing none, tried another.

This I kept up for about an hour, maybe three, with my blood pressure and frustration levels skyrocketing in tandem. Finally, after staring blankly at the Medusa-like labyrinth of pipes for a full fifteen minutes without identifying a single additional faucet- or lever-like object that might conceivably fit the bill, I simply gave up. To hell with the heater. I shut everything down and went back upstairs, fuming.

It was not, I rationalized, as though we were planning to deliver any babies in the household that evening, and besides, the pool was still somewhat warm and we could shower in the guest house, which has its own little water heater. Dishes, schmishes. Laundry, schmaundry. In the cold light of day, perhaps the missing lever would spontaneously reveal itself. With only a short time left before the expected arrival of our guests, I tried to put the wasted day out of my mind and look forward instead to the batch of Mojitos I would shortly prepare.

Mojitos. There's nothing quite like a nice Mojito (except, perhaps, a nice Caipirinha). Something about that combination of cane sugar, fresh mint, fresh lime, and mega-doses of golden rum works like a magic elixir on an ailing household.

The ingredients stood strategically displayed on the counter when our guests arrived, thirstily cooing, but before concocting and serving, I forced the guests to accompany me to the basement to bend their fresh minds to the problem. Lo and behold, miracle of miracles, they had once experienced precisely the same problem in their previous house. They, I hasten to add, had been similarly baffled at the time, but luckily the mother of one of the guests had experienced it as well, and had identified the Magic Valve for them.

After one or two trial twists, our guests identified our own Magic Valve, which didn't, as far as I could tell, look much like a valve or anything intended to be twisted at all. We twisted, heard a short, cheerful gurgle, and the pressure in the expansion vat rose rapidly to 1 bar. A few moments to let the system stabilize, and I tried turning the switch. Ta-daa! A trumpet flourish. It stayed on.

Granted, the heating system tripped an error again a few minutes later, but that was just a hiccup, due, I presume, to the pressure not yet having equalized throughout. After another half hour, I turned it on again, and this time it worked.

The most frustrating thing about the experience, in plaintive summary, is that it took nearly an entire day to diagnose a problem that took less than ten seconds to correct. If that particular lever had been clearly labeled in the first place (or labeled at all, for that matter), six hours of pain and frustration would have been saved. Darn those previous owners!

But did I label it? Of course! ... No, I did not. But I will, I promise, if I happen to remember.

As for the ghosts in the radiators? Yes, I'm afraid they're still whining like hungry dolfins, but somehow they don't bother me quite as much any more. I'm sure they'll eventually go away if I just ignore them.