Fire Fighting

My father was a firefighter for most of his life.  He was a very kind, compassionate person. He was also always cold. I don’t know if it actually had something to do with fighting fires though he would always joke that it was. He’d come home and crank up the HVAC. I remember my mother looking at him with ‘that look’ she always got when we were bad. He’d reply that he had been sitting in a fire that day and was used to the warmth. He’d say it with a smile. We all knew he was full of it. Regardless of the actual reason for his temperature preferences, I grew up in a home that was always extremely warm. The thermostat was never set under seventy five degrees. I like the cold, and I tend to run hot, so the HVAC kicking on every half hour was a constant source of vexation to me as a kid. Sometimes I’d try to turn the heat down. I’d sneak into the dining room and mess with the thermostat only to have my schemes counteracted almost immediately. Someone would always notice and say ‘why is it so cold in here!’ When I moved out of my childhood home, I appreciated my own space. I did, however, finally fully comprehend how much money and effort my parents spent on keeping the house so warm all the time. I had to have an HVAC system in a house of my own before I could really get it. The maintenance, the gas bills, it was crazy at first. This coming from me who, as I said, doesn’t keep my heat up very high.

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