Memoirs,..from a 19th century New England town.

                                      I have read many books and translations in my small poorly- lit nineteenth century quarter by candle light aside the fireplace. Above the wooden mantle hung a dark brown and grey portrait of Abraham Lincoln hung on the wall. With a glass of fine red wine on my side cofee table beside a mahagony recliner. The  leisurely hours would unravel through the night in the midst of my studies. It was then in my early forties residing in a quiet country New England town that I rented  a room from a presumptous landlady known throughout the spread village community as Madame Hissafet. An elderly woman,..a widower who was commonly feared among the curious natives,..mysterious she was indeed,..however I would add ,..a bit misunderstood.
                                  I lived aside the cellar door,..and would occasionally bump into her in passing when I was leaving. She did not say much but always had the same empty frazzled lifeless expression,..one of withered years and maple syrup. It was during this brief span in my middle age years that I was put out of work for some time. I would find useless hobbies to fill up my vacant hours. Sometimes I would sit beside the frozen river in the Winter and stare out onto the icy platform. Being surrounded by nature in the Winter was one of my favorite childhood pastimes that prevailed into my later years. The bare trees in the brisk noon,.with occasional frigid gusts from the river. I could tell at these times that I was very much alone,..and very similar to Madame Hissafet.
                          On returning home in the evening she would bring me a home cooked supper in a braided Easter basket that she used to parade around on her head with when she was young and beautiful. I was living in her place for a good six months before I decided to ask her to join me for dinner one night. She agreed without any thought or effort. We sat there in the cool of the evening. I could here feline cries from the upstairs as we sat down to our meal. It was her cat Beatrice that was not regulary  used to spending this time of the evening by herself. We sat in my small den across from each other,..on either side of my flimsy plywood kitchen table. She began telling me long drawn out stories about her life. She went on and on  about her deceased husband Maurice and their time in Paris. How they'd walk along the Seine every morning,..and about the moment when they decided to settle down and get married. Madame Hissafet admitted that she had a son who was about my age ,..and that I even resembled him a little bit.
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