by Kathleen M. Brosius

The familiar sound of an owl, shadows flickering on the wall, the touch of the soft feather mattress that we lay on: these are a few of the senses experienced during a night spent in an old shanty that rested on the banks of the Minnesota Sough. There was no running water; no electricity. In a tiny kitchen, our mother used a two-burner propane stove to prepare supper. She stored milk and butter in an old ice box on the porch.

We had several kerosene lamps in those days. The smell of the golden fluid that brought life to that humble cottage gave me much comfort during my young life. I loved the lamp that sat on a small table beside the bed, best of all. A round glass bowl, that held the kerosene, perched on a tall pedestal. A cotton wick was fed down through the burner until it dipped into the amber fuel below. When it was ignited, the glow of the flame illuminated the room, casting mysterious shadows about. A sparkling glass chimney protected the flame, as it flickered and danced inside its crystal prison.

Our mother took my brothers and me on adventures around the world as she read stories from ancient books. I recall: The Bobbsey Twins, Raggedy Ann and Andy, Yellow Eyes, and of course Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Today, we have all the luxuries of modern life, it seems, no matter where we go. But there is one thing that I truly miss, that old kerosene lamp. Whenever I smell kerosene, I travel back to a world where fairies danced on walls, a mighty owl ruled the woods at night. My mother was close and my father near-by. So grateful am I for the gift of memory. A flame that flickers deep in my soul comes to life at just the smell of that liquid gold.