Difficult Handwriting

It was after 11:30, time for me to put out the reading light and roll over to sleep, but another lamp shone at the desk by the window.  Aunt Eleanor was still writing letters to her friends.  At night, after siging the mail that Tommy had left on her desk at the end of the day, she enjoyed writing to her family and some intimate friends.
    One might wonder why people liked getting her handwritten letters, since they had to spend some time deciphering them.  My aunt's handwriting was dreadful.  But it was a complement to know that she herself had pushed the pen, so you puzzled once again over the scrawl and evetually became quite good at reaing it; it was dreadful but consistant, unique, and recognizable if not legible.
    The pleasant, second story, south facing room in her new apartment served as living room, guest room, and study for my aunt.  One wall had floor-to-ceiling bookcases and cupboards.  Along the opposite wall, two day beds stretched head to foot, each one covered by a dark blue, hand loomed bed spread and smothered with cushions of every size and shape.  Discovering your bed in the evenin required poling cushions on the other bed, or on the floor if there were two of you.  Aunt Eleanor felt free to work at her desk if I was the guest, although she always asked if I would mind.  It was companionable to have her there, and I have never had any trouble going to sleep unless circumstances weredramatically against me, so I welcomed my hard-at-writing aunt.
    Some years ago, the FDR Library in Hyde Park, New York, asked anyone who had handwritten letters from Eleanor Roosevelt to please send them to the library where permanent records about my aunt are housed.  I sent most of the letters she had written to me, but I have to admit I kept a few for my personal enjoyment.  I'm glad now that I did.  Each one is special to me.