I was up late this last Sunday of September on the eve of Rosh Hashana. New York is quiet during the Jewish holidays. The walk west along 68th street to the newsstand on the corner of Lexington Ave was not the usual upstream push against the crowd of hospital workers on their way from the exit of the subway to New York Hospital on First Avenue. The stands that line 68th street were robust with days-old fruit and vegetables, the salespeople on their cell phones speaking in Middle East languages. The stack of New York Times Sunday papers was unusually high as was the New York Post. New Yorkers were not in town that was obvious. I decided to take my morning coffee at the Shakespeare & Co. bookstore on the corner of 68th and Lexington-my usual haunt whenever I am in the city. A stack of books awaiting author signature were at the cash register-Ian McEwan’s “Lessons.” I was quick to buy a copy. The young woman behind the counter was pleasant. We were alone in the store. I felt like I had just dropped into a sacred land of books, virtually alone with all these authors in the early morning when I could touch any book and feel inspired. There is something special to me about bookstores. My early years upstate at Scranton’s on Main Street, I would walk the aisles unable to buy anything for lack of spendable money. More importantly I didn’t have the knowledge I have today of authors and topics of interest. It took three years of reading American literature and history at Rutgers to finally accept that I could read and more importantly grasp what was written notwithstanding my dyslexia. Here I was in this sacred place able to buy any book and able to be selective. With coffee in hand I sat down in a corner of the book store and delved into the Times only to see on the front page an article on a newly discovered trove of Hemingway stories, documents, unpublished works and photos on display at Penn State University. I was immediately taken by the article and read it through in the quiet room. I walked over to the shelves with Hemingway and scanned his many works. It was personal like I was able to talk to the author. I was transfixed. Some say bookstores like local newspapers are of the past. Carl and I talked last night after watching the film about a day in the life of The Mountain Messenger. I felt relieved that I am alive in a time when both bookstores and newspapers are still in existence despite the preponderance of technology. It was great to be in New York this Sunday before I travel south for the winter. All is good with me.