My mom was fiercely protective of the thermostat. The house I grew up in had oil heat. My parents couldn't always afford to fill up the tank when it ran low. I remember my dad bundling up to go out to knock on the side of the oil drum to see how low it was, hoping it wasn’t as low as our bank account balance. A hollow sound at the top and bottom meant it was going to be a cold night.
My sister and I would wrap ourselves in a blanket and stand in front of the oven and turn it on for just a minute, either until we warmed up or until Mom caught us and yelled at us to stop and shut the oven door. Whichever came first.
When nights like that came, my parents, all my brothers and sisters and sometimes grandma would sleep out in the living room with blankets and sleeping bags and the space heater from the bathroom pointed at us on full blast. I was young enough that I had no concept of money or bills or oil or heat. I just knew it was fun to have a family sleepover in the living room. On nights like that, what we didn’t burn in oil, we would run up in an electric bill. But that was next month’s problem to deal with.
When payday came in a couple days, we’d be able to put some oil in the tank. When the furnace would finally kick on, there would be a low rumble and my brothers and sisters and I would all jump and run to a vent in the floor and stand above it, letting the heat fill the robes and blankets wrapped around us, soaking up every bit of warmth we could while we could.
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