Gas heater
When I was a little girl, I spent many a night curled up on the hearth in front of a gas heater, listening to the hiss of the gas and staring at the orange and blue flames. Often I could hear my dad’s snoring in his nearby bed, the rhythmic cadence that told me I was safe. The heat from the fire felt toasty and off in the distance a lone train whistle would sing and speak of travels to far off places. A neighbor dog would bark and in the orange glow of that stove, I’d stumble back to my bed, carrying that warmth back with me to color my dreams.
20 Minutes a Day 
That heater is almost identical to the one currently hosed up in my livingroom. I can also recall many a cold winter’s night drifting off to peasful dreams as the blue and yellow flames gently lick those warty looking ceramic heating blocks. As each block would slowly increase the cherry-red intensity of that old gas heater warmth I would lay in bed smothered under two or three layers of Grandmomas handmade quilts secure in the knowledge that my toe would be toasted to perfection before hitting those cold wood floors the next morning.
Nicely said. Happy memories!
When I was little, we had a woodstove that went out at night. We slept under loads of blankets and huddled together (4 to a bed—2 up and 2 down). In the morning, getting up was painful unless dad had had to get up to go to work and started a fire going. Actually, that’s not fair, mom was always up whether dad got up for work or not. I believe she mostly started up the stove.I couldn’t live in those times now. Cold is not my friend. Such memories.