To heat or not to heat

Today, as Gabby and I huddle around the space heater she asks me again when we are going to turn the furnace on. I told her to put on a stocking hat. She did not. Her (heat) loss.

Wrigley burrows under the covers for warmth

Wrigley burrows under the covers for warmth

When I was a kid . . . (starting any sentence this way is a sure sign your old) we lived in a large old farmhouse that we heated with a wood burning stove. Sounds so cozy and rustic doesn’t it? Well, my dad didn’t figure we needed to heat the upstairs where the bedrooms were, I mean we were sleeping under blankets, wasn’t that enough? Sheesh!

Some mornings I woke up and the inside of my bedroom windows would be frosted over – I’m not kidding you. You could scrape them with an ice scraper.  I knew it was really cold in my bedroom the day I woke up and the glass of water by my bed was frozen! Even that proof did nothing to soften my dad’s heart. He was building our characters – whatever the hell that is.

Now, I’m not going that hardcore on Gabby, she’s far too delicate for all that, and I’ve grown far too delicate for all that too. But I’m holding out for as long as possible . . . I’ll let you know when we finally break.