“Mountain Lodge” smells rich and serious. It smells like cologne and a good clean neck. It reminds me of madrigal dinners, makes me want to spell “color” with a “u” and hum, “Carol of the Bells.” I feel like shuffling down a long dimly lit stone corridor
past tapestries and suits of armor. It makes me hear shoes click faintly and window panes creak from icy gusts of wind like the ropes of an old docked ship. Then it makes me feel a rush of heat from the fireplace as I enter the study. I want to polish my coin collection on a huge polar bearskin rug while drinking red wine and eating dark chocolate with shards of candy cane from a sterling silver dish. The woody smell makes me want to sit down at a solid oak wrap-around desk and pull the cold gold chain of its built-in desk lamp. It makes me want to wear wire spectacles and smoke a pipe, just so I can hear the ivory mouthpiece click against my bottom teeth. My eyelids grow heavy as I breath in “Mountain Lodge.” My brown leather chair creaks as I lean back and furrow my brow, looking up to my moose head for writing inspiration.