The vents connected to our basement wood and coal-fired furnace in Alexandria were ordinary wall-mount side registers. Except one.
Back in the 50s, our house got very cold overnight as the fire was "banked" then allowed to slowly die. Every morning, an early-riser would go down into the basement and "shake the furnace" with an iron lever, dropping clinkers into the ash pit before kindling the dying embers with new fuel. This distant sound, transmitted through cold sheet-metal vents, comforted sleepy-heads snuggled two floors above.
But the greatest comfort on a chilly morning came after the fire had caught and you could stand on the living room floor grate and let the new heat waves billow all around you in a glorious updraft. The iron grate got so toasty you couldn't stand on it too long in bare or stocking feet.
Early this dark, chilly morning, as I stood in the front window and watched snow drifts reflect the twinkle of the Anderson's Christmas lighting, our thermostat quietly completed its overnight set-back program and cycled up drafts of heat. I detected this because I happened to be standing on a floor register.
As the welcome heat engulfed me, so did the nostalgia. Yes, the warmth felt good, but absolutely nothing like it once did.
