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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.  

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