Many people who live within hailing distance of the old Gazette awoke to snow on their lawns and cars this morning, as Tuesday’s all-day cold rain turned into a sneak preview of winter.

I had snow, too ... on my bedroom carpet, in the bathtub and on the living room mantle. Just kidding — but the temperature was a cozy 44 degrees inside my Albany headquarters at 6:15 a.m. Cozy, if you are an arctic fox!

Yes, time for another update on the Cold War, a test of wills between myself and colleagues Sara Foss and Judy Patrick. We’re all trying to keep our heat turned off until shivering arms, frozen fingers and chattering teeth dictate a change in personal energy policy. Judy and I are both trying to stave off exorbitant shakedowns by Big Oil, as our furnaces’ favorite fluid is flying fast financially this year. The fewer gallons of oil we burn, the fewer gallons of money we lose.

Sara is renting in downtown Albany, and pays for her own heat. I understand her landlady is a good-hearted soul. And I expect she might say “Turn on your heat!” faster than Hop Sing flipped over a pancake on “Bonanza” ... but competition is competition.

I’ve had to do some explaining, so people don’t think I’m ready for the cooler. My brother Tim and his friend Jamie visited bleak house last night on their way to the movies, and I had to offer reasons for the cold ambience. They both kept their coats on during the discussion, and I built a fire to knock some of the frost off the furniture.

Fireplaces and space heaters are okay with me as both the chill and November advance. Hunks of maple and oak are cheaper than oil, and heating one room makes more sense than flipping the thermostat switch and cooking the entire house.

Sara is right when she mentions constant supplies of cool air promote an appreciation for the warmer things in life. Hot showers are nice, but so is hitting the sack with a bunch of blankets on top. I know some people hate the extra weight, but I’ve always liked the warmth that comes with about 50 pounds of wool. The covers represent about 8 hours of free heat.

I own an old house, built around 1915. It was never insulated, and while I did get an estimate last year, I thought I’d try to get through a few more winters before investing in foam. I have always figured I can deal with polar temperatures indoors from November through March. To quote Paul Newman from “Harper” — “As long as there’s a Siberia, you’ll find Lew Harper on the job.”

Of course, if I was married and was feeling the heat to comply with the rest of the neighborhood ... well, I would not be a factor in this exercise.

Judy must deal with the spousal wild card. Her husband, Mr. Patrick, could betray the resistance some afternoon, and order hot air for dinner while Judy is still at work. For now, Mr. Patrick is surviving the extended cold snap by wearing a hooded sweatshirt around the house. I occasionally cope with a wool cap. At least I look like a 1960s rock ‘n’ roll guitarist — Mike Nesmith of the Monkees, if you really want to know — while Mr. Patrick is just a common street thug.

Judy also has felt pressure from her mother, Phyllis Sharp, who has read about the October game and has posted words of advice to both myself and Ms. Foss. Phyllis, who has appeared in this blog before as a master chef of potato salad, reportedly has told Judy she plans to turn off her heat if the competition continues much longer. The Patrick team faces another challenge on Friday, Nov. 14, when daughter Erica arrives home from St. Louis for a visit. Erica is a doctor, and may very well lecture her parents about this folly. Certainly, Erica’s parents would not subject their daughter to freezing Washington County conditions in the name of sport; I may have to visit that weekend .... to make sure a blue-skinned Erica has not exchanged slippers for snowshoes.

I had been planning to begin the winter heating season on Saturday, Nov. 15, and celebrate radiators’ return with a batch of homemade chili, a kettle of mashed potatoes and a few college football games. I had not scheduled this little party to take advantage of the Patricks’ expected departure from the contest the day before. Just fate. As for Ms. Foss, I expect she will remain on ice at least into mid-November; she has New England roots and youth on her side. The potential spoiler is her father, who believes 60 degrees is much too cold!

If early November is brisk and brittle in my ice hotel, I will remember Bobby Frost and his words of wisdom ... “the woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep ... and miles to go before I sleep.”

And miles to go, before I heat.