In college I shared a house with a few close friends. We named it Bijou Manor and fancied ourselves a world apart. There were many things that made that place special, surely too many to write here, but one of them was my room.
Not long after moving in, I moved from one of the traditional bedrooms on the ground floor to a room at the top of the attic stairs. It was a small space, just big enough for a bed, a small chest of drawers, and a homemade writing desk. The floor slanted slightly toward the overgrown backyard and every board in the place creaked. The walls were paneled with ancient tongue and groove wood, permanently stained almost black from age and many coats of slowly disintegrating varnish.
My first pen pal – that is a person whom I never met except through letters – was the sister of an Air Force friend. He saw letters I wrote home and to friends and thought his sister would enjoy them.
Meg was a naive girl from Fond du Lac, WI. From my first letter, she seized on them as though they were important communications from another planet. And, I suppose if you were from Fond du Lac, they probably were.