By the Light of the Moon

This little chalet lodge my daughter, gran-daughter, and I stayed in was reminiscent of the past; the musty aroma in the hallways were like my Grandma Sodergren's apartment stairs in Minneapolis, as well as my mother's cousins' apartment stairs in Evanston. There were little reading lamps at tall tables next to Readers' Digest Condensed Books. I even found an early, red E.L.C. hymnal. Though I have one in my possession, I found it most unsual that someone else would have one. There was a book of ten plays, such as Antigone, Hedda Gabler, Othello, the Little Foxes, etc., as well as other books. The time and place made me feel nostalgic, somewhat like observing the antique typewriter I store in the basement. It was my kind of setting, as a writer: leather chairs, fans, lamps, especially the table lamp on my little high desk. It was very quiet. There was a nearly empty refrigerator with ice in the freezer; there also were big plants, a large clock, a fire place, a desk, sofas in a u-shape, and a coat rack. The one hour I spent writing mini-reviews in cursive and reading my writers' magazines was a precious hour I shall never forget. This is the way it was years back, no hum of the computer, just quiet, for these kinds of past-times.