For a chunk of our life I grew up in a colder climate. Every year for half of the year, hot and cold temperatures were below 50 degrees. My sibling and I being youngsters would play outside (well, our sibling would play. I would tag along waiting until I could go back inside and read). I remember those days. Every one of us would stay outside until we could not suppose our toes or our fingers. Every one of us 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 oil furnace was on. Blue flames licking along generating that heat (I would watch the flames occasionally). 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 crucial vent down by the door. My sibling and I would alternate who is 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 adequately dry, we still needed to thaw out some more. Every one of us would go upstairs and find a vent to lay by. This was our preferred times. I would grab a book that I was studying and lay by the vent of our choice. Warm air would blow throughout the room, warming it and me. That was the blessing of a heated house.