For a chunk of my life I grew up in a colder climate. Every year for half of the year, temperatures were below 50 degrees. My brother and I being kids would play outside (well, my brother would play. I would tag along waiting until I could go back inside and read). I remember those days. We would stay outside until we could not feel our toes or our fingers. We would be wet from head to toe, half frozen and worn out. Finally, we would go inside. That was a glorious feeling. The heat would greet us; I knew downstairs in the basement that the furnace was on. Blue flames licking along generating that heat (I would watch the flames sometimes). It was warm and so comforting. My mom had a rule that we had to take wet stuff off down at the door. So, we utilized the big vent down by the door. My brother and I would take turns in front of it drying off. The warmth would thaw out frozen appendages and dry wet clothes. With our wet underthings, we would hang them to dry where the heat could get to them. Once we were sufficiently dry, we still needed to thaw out some more. We would go upstairs and find a vent to lay by. This was my favorite times. I would grab a book that I was reading and lay by the vent of my choice. Warm air would blow throughout the room, warming it and me. That was the blessing of a heated house.