The main building at the resort was once the summer home of a wealthy industrialist. When he died, the family squabbled over the estate until it was finally sold to a young entrepreneur.
He tried to establish it as a hotel for the rich and famous, who often visited the area. After the stock market crash most of the rich stopped coming. In time other homes were also sold and later also converted to hotels. That's when the whole Catskills thing took hold.
I often wondered which was larger: the burned out hideaway or the resort building. I let the ghost remain greater. Still, replace the intricate moldings in the resort that were masterfully carved into the dark rich walnut with stonework and it becomes a castle in Camelot. The surrounding porch, covered on all side of the house was the castle wall, from where I observed the kingdom.
During the day I fought off attacking armies or dispatched knights including myself to defend the kingdom against marauding Vikings. Sometimes I was the Viking, stalking, looking for any opening to attack and plunder. At night, when there was darkness and the unknown facing all sides, the enemy was a dragon. I slew two before returning inside.
Most of the guests and workers had retired for the night. There was old man Kalba, resting in his usual chair near the window. His head leaned back against the cushion. His right hand griping his cane as it too rested against his leg. A subtle snore passed his lips.
Most of each day the old man would walk the grounds stopping to talk with everyone on his route. The amount of dialogue usually depended on how tired he was. At the end of the day there were many long seated discussions. He always had a friendly smile as wide and cheery as his rough white beard.
I never stayed up long enough to find out, but I suspected that he slept in the lobby all night. Because each morning at breakfast the old man was cheerfully up and about. Always the first one to be served; filling up with fresh nourishment for the day's new journey. Even when it rained he would still follow his daily ritual, holding a large black umbrella with his free hand. Although for not as long because the dampness made his bones hurt.
There were two more people. A young man and a young woman were sitting near the library. The man had his arm around the woman's shoulder. They were talking mostly about themselves in between a few kisses. The only other people in the lobby were my parents, the professor and Aunt Helen.
They were all sitting around a card table in the far corner of the room playing tyshachka (thousand). They hadn't noticed that I sat down on the couch.
Aunt Helen was in her forties. My father was thirty-seven at the time, three years older than my mother. I don't know how old the professor was but his dark grey beard, neatly trimmed, and made him look older than anyone else sitting at the table.
For some reason I was very tired that day. Probably the second dragon did me in, he was a ferocious one. I had to fight him off with my wooden sword while holding on to the columns along the porch. I wasn't going to tell my parents that I had slipped on the wet railing and fell to the ground, twice. My left side was still a little sore so I lay down and stretched out my limbs.
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