Most winters in my early Connecticut childhood in the late '60s, living in chilly three-family apartment houses chipped with lead paint, a radiator hissed. Keeping us toasty, the dingy-white stand-alone stood bunched like an accordion, a business-like observer with folded arms steaming strategically in every room.

These ugly eyesores gifted warm welcomes, a surprising contrast to the graceful glass knobs granting entry to beds, closets, and bath. Yet the gleaming facets would soon reflect something haunting, and to this day, crystal-clear door turners creep me out.

The Victorian ornate handle aversion is likely tied to the hide-and-seek apartment hunts, especially after the incident about to unfold. Perhaps it's the spooky shells of vacant houses, warped wood, echoing eras and the scent of ghostly cats and hardships past, or the eerie logic of a preschooler the season we didn't have enough heat.

My folks pleaded with the elderly landlady upstairs.
"Please," I'm sure they said. "Please turn it up. We have a baby and a three-year-old."

Most landlords-- and laws-- would agree it was crucial we didn't freeze. I'm not sure of the adult reasons why, if payment was an issue on either end, or if the thing was broken, or if the pleas escalated into angry demands, but the cranky fuel queen refused to budge.

In the meantime, Mom likely bundled us up in sweatshirts, flannel footsy sleepers, and coats. We probably slept snug under an igloo of blankets because we somehow survived unscathed.

But in the heat of the thermostatic battle, the landlady died!

As I wove myself below the knees of my parents and aunts, the shocking tidbits floated down as a stretcher took the lady away. And even though I hadn't yet gone to school or grasped death, I summed up the situation in black and white, blurting out to anyone who asked,

"She died because she didn't give us any heat!"

The grownups laughed, thinking this was adorable; I imagine it was a cross between a chuckle and an appalling gasp with hands over their mouths. Maybe some even thought I was smart. In my new budding-- albeit naive-- wisdom, it was obvious. God punished her for being stingy.

It's still a mystery how I knew of a 'fire and brimstone' deity at my age, one who doled out harsh deals for bad deeds. We didn't go to church and I wasn't formally educated yet. Was it television, books, or was I so fresh from Heaven, I knew this innately? : )

What a remarkable leap of thinking for a little tyke--a child new to the world recognizing "good versus bad" and calling people out on it! It's the basis of most stories and a way for kids to sort through the confusing universe we live in, learning what is expected of them, and where they stand. I wish I had that childlike confidence back--the innocent ease of being yourself, saying whatever is on your mind, not worrying what others will think.

Antique glass doorknobs still give me the shivers, especially when we creaked up a narrow staircase in an empty 1800s half-converted farm house for sale a few years back. But one thing that's evolved is a relationship with a fair and forgiving God; one who loves us so much, no matter what, He sent his cool, laid-back son, Jesus, to die for us so we will never be alone, gifting us an everlasting life.

Regardless, we should always be kind to one another, and not withhold basic human needs. In addition, we can keep someone warm with a smile, loving word, and friendship over coffee or hot chocolate--or hey, why not both?