I have post card, dated August 11, 1929

No one really knows why restoration stopped on the abandoned Kimbal's Castle, where commoners and kings once came to relax in luxury. Hikers can still reach the ruins; the views of the lake and surrounding mountains are still unparallelled. The castle itself stands relatively intact, its bulk stern against the crowding trees, most of its stained glass plucked away but a few panes, blue, gold and angry red, reflect the rising, and the setting, sun. Some say it was a quarrel between the town and developers. Others that the developers were just a shill company for the mob. And that bodies are buried on the grounds. (My mother said this. She remembered my father meeting with the other town councilmen and lawyers with steel briefcases full of fresh hundred dollar bills.) In the sixties I'd had hopes we'd turn it into a commune. With a communal kitchen. Gardens. Unspeakably handsome boys and sturdy useful girls. Wearing some version of suitable peasant clothing and making homey handicrafts. But none of this would happen. Sometimes I still dream. Of eagles and sparrows nesting in the many towers. Of owls hinting futures into the night. But all of this is a haunting. And I'm an old woman. I've almost outlived the castle. And I've never spent that night.