In roughly the same meandering mix of sentiment and cunning observation as in The Inland Island (1968), Miss Johnson journeys back to the houses where she once lived -- in childhood and the first one she and her husband owned. Inevitably the backward glance becomes a search -- for people, places and one's own past awarenesses, ""a trail that can only be described as lurching."" Memories waver between childsized (essentially outsized) and adult assessments: ""I became a nice child. . .a rather stout slow child. . .Bomb-shaped but slow burning, long-fused."" She sheds a kindly-to-astringent light on her family and events but above all landscapes, both interior and outdoors. ""Memories of people move about too much. . .But the dew on the grass. . . -- that stays."" The author writes of meadows and trees, a big drafty hall with a stairway of sun motes, games of hide-and-seek through the many chambers and halls. And there are views of creatures -- a huge settlement of bats, the bizarre movement of insects, cats that sprawl with their ""feet over the edge of things."" A memoir which stops and starts, occasionally spins its wheels but which is powered by a serious, honorable intent.