For a chunk of our 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 youngsters would play outside (well, our brother would play. I would tag along waiting until I could go back inside and read). I remember those afternoons. We would stay outside until we could not know 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 oil furnace was on. Blue sparks licking along generating that heat (I would watch the sparks occasionally). It was moderate and so comforting. My mom had a rule that we had to take wet stuff off down at the door. So, we utilized the huge vent down by the door. My brother 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 reasonably dry, we still needed to thaw out some more. We would go upstairs and find a vent to lay by. This was our favorite times. I would grab a book that I was reading 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.