I'll See You in My Dreams

I didn't imagine I'd be writing any new stories about Butch; he's been gone for three years now. But this morning, when I finally slept hard and late after a night spent tossing and turning, he came to me in a dream.

It was past time for me to get up, and in the dream I did that. I put on my robe, stepped out into the hallway, and there, where I expected to see Levi and Gimpy, I saw Butch instead. He was doing his familiar, happy tap-dance on the tile floor, wagging his tail so vigorously that his whole back end moved. In the way of dreams, I believed I was awake, but the sight of a living, breathing Butch made the wide-awake dream-me think I must be dreaming. I reached out first to touch the door frame, then the green, high-back chair, reasoning that if I could make myself touch real things, then I must be awake.

Butch didn't seem to have any such concerns. He was all over me, wriggling against my legs, pushing his face against my hand, soaking up all the loving he'd missed while he'd been away. I dropped onto the sofa and picked him up, holding him like a squirmy baby, running my hands through his soft fur, sniffing his ears and his popcorn-scented paws, relishing the impossible moment.

My grandmother walked into the room, she who passed away in 1988, and my daughter Kim, too, who is very much alive today but was a young girl in the dream. Still not believing Butch could be here, I asked them both if they could see him. They could not.

I turned to look again and saw him standing by my knees, his tail still wagging, then I looked across the room and he was there, too. He was everywhere I looked. Sometimes I could see four or five of him in different places at once, all of them moving, sniffing corners, exploring every part of every room the same way I would do if I could visit the house where I grew up.

Eventually the long dream changed into a twisted scenario involving a long bus ride with the child-Kim in New York City, and it ended almost immediately after that when I woke up for real. I lay quietly in bed for a long while, soaking up the joy I'd felt at the dream reunion with Butch. He'd seemed younger than he'd been at the end of his life. A little thinner, too, and much more agile. Every bit as affectionate. I've tried to remember whether or not he was still blind in the dream, but I can't recall. It doesn't matter; we could see each other just fine.

Later this morning, after I'd been up for a while, I noticed today's date: March 19th. Butch was a found puppy who came to live with us on the last day of April, 1998. The veterinarian who checked him over that day estimated his age at six weeks, so we counted back into the middle of March to choose a date to celebrate as his birthday. We picked a date we knew we'd always remember because it was my second husband's birthday: March 19th.

To the best of my recollection, this is the first time I've ever dreamed about Butch. Happy birthday, sweet angel--and thanks so much for sharing it with me.

When a Place Calls Your Name

Have you ever experienced an intense longing to visit some particular place? Maybe  somewhere you've lived before, somewhere you've visited, or even somewhere you've never been except in your imagination?

I've had occasional longings to return to the Missouri hometown of my childhood and have made that trip a couple of times. Last spring the Smoky Mountains were tugging at my heartstrings, so much so that I went on a binge of reading books set in those mountains. Call it coincidence or call it fate, but right in the middle of that book binge, my sister Judy called and invited me to go on vacation with her--to the Smokies. It's been almost a year since we fulfilled that wonderful dream.

Also, for as long as I can remember, I've imagined myself being in Ireland. Knowing I'll probably never get there, I attempt to satisfy that urge by listening to Irish music and watching step-dancing videos when I get the chance. It hasn't escaped my attention that the roots of bluegrass, the  music of the Smoky Mountains, extend partly to Ireland. Who knows? Maybe those longings are in my blood, a connection to an Irish ancestor who settled in the Smokies. Or maybe (woo woo) it's even some kind of a past-life thing.

Donna, my stepsister, fell in love with Charleston, South Carolina when she visited there, and she speaks often of wanting to go back. Her love affair with Charleston is one of the reasons she wanted me to read the books mentioned in my last post. Having now read some of them, I understand the attraction that the low country holds for her.

I'm pretty sure most of us experience those geographical longings at some point in our lifetimes. In fact, songwriters and musicians have been inspired to write about places they've been or wanted to be so many times that a Google search for "songs about places" turned up "about 370,000,000 results." So what do you think it is about a certain place that reaches out and grabs you and won't let go?

The reason this whole subject is on my mind is that lately I've been replaying one particular song over and over because I love the feelings it inspires. The places mentioned in the song don't hold any special meaning for me, but the sentiment of it touches me deeply. Listen and see what you think; it's this week's Saturday Song Selection:

_______________________________________________________________

The song is "Talk to Me of Mendocino" by Kate and Anna McGarrigle.

(Click here to read the lyrics.) 

Thanks to TempleBethShira for posting this video on YouTube.

_______________________________________________________________

Too much TV?

I remember only fragments of my dreams last night, but I'd like to be able to repeat one of the things I do remember:

As I drifted off into a dream state, a screen popped up in my head, looking very much like the list of DVR recordings on my TV screen. It was a list of dream topics. I selected one (telepathically, I suppose, for I had no remote control), my choice was highlighted for a brief moment, and then I began dreaming about that very pleasant subject.

Do you suppose the head honcho in charge of the human psyche has hired a tech support team? And if this was just a trial offer, do you know where I can sign up for the upgrade?

Dream composer

Something weird has happened to me in the last month, and I'm wondering if it's ever happened to any of you. On two separate occasions I've awakened after dreaming that I listened to someone singing a song. The odd thing is that I've remembered the tunes and a substantial portion of the lyrics, even though the songs were ones I've never actually heard in real life.

The second dream song was the prettiest one, but I can only remember a few bars of it now, and I haven't been motivated to do anything with it. The first one, though, came to me pretty well packaged. I woke up with the tune for the whole thing and complete lyrics for the bridge. I wrote down those lyrics when I first got up, and before noon that day I'd written four verses to go with the bridge and the melody.

So, what do I do with the next great country western song now that I've written it? Well, since I have neither the talent nor the means to make a demo record and send it to Nashville, I'll share it with you, of course -- at least the lyrics. You'll just have to trust me that there is a tune, but since you can't hear it, knock yourself out and make up your own tune.

Here's my song (the words in italics are exactly as I heard them in the dream):

**********

Jump Right In

You made me think I meant somethin’ to you,
You told me that you loved me, now I know it wasn’t true.
The first chance you had you did somethin’ really bad
And you kept on, kept on just doin’ what you do.

You held me close while you told me your lies
Until I learned you’re nothin’ but a cheater in disguise.
The first time I knew someone else was lovin’ you
Was the last time, last time tears fell from my eyes.

Don’t want to be a friend to you,
Just want to put an end to you,
Don’t stick around like you’re hot-glued
Givin’ me attitude,
Take it to the river, dude,
And jump right in.

You say you’ll do anything to make me see
You’ve gotta have me in your life in some capacity,
But you did me wrong so I wrote this little song
Just to tell you, tell you to stay away from me.

You hang around thinkin’ I might take you back,
You say you’re sorry and you’ll get your life back on track.
You say no other man will ever love me like you can,
I say, “Do you, do you think that I’m on crack?”

Don’t want to be a friend to you,
Just want to put an end to you,
Don’t stick around like you’re hot-glued
Givin’ me attitude,
Take it to the river, dude,
And jump right in.

**********

Now, it was Sugarland's Jennifer Nettles who was singing the song in my dream, and Sugarland just happens to have a hit record of their own called Stuck Like Glue, so I'm thinking that my subconscious mind (or the Grand Poobah of Music Composition in the Sky who beamed it into my head) might have been slightly influenced by that song -- although Sugarland's song is about sticking and mine is clearly about unsticking.

My inner chef

The other night I dreamed I was at my niece's wedding reception. It was late, and most of the guests had already left, but a few of us lingered to chat for a few more minutes.

Earlier, the line at the buffet table had been so long I didn't want to stand in it, but now there was nobody there, and I was hungry. I walked up to the table, got myself a plate, and checked out the food that was left.

One thing caught my eye: a tray full of bird-shaped pastries--pretty, golden-brown things, each about the size of an actual sparrow. Each one had a plump body, a perky tail, a pair of folded wings, and a pastry head complete with a pointed little beak. The birds were all lined up in neat rows in a steaming, stainless steel tray. I put just one on my plate and headed back to my table.

When I pierced the little bird with my fork, I was surprised to find that it's crispy brown body had been formed around a meatball. It was delicious! It wasn't a spaghetti-type meatball, more of a tightly packed ball of meat-and-rice dressing that tasted wonderful inside the buttery pastry.

A quick Google search for "pastry + bird" turned up lots of variations of chicken potpie recipes, but nothing like the meat-filled pastry birds of my dream. If any of you cooks out there need an impressive meat dish, see what you can do with this idea. And if it turns out to be something you'd want to make again, please post photos and a recipe. I'd kind of like to have some more myself.

When a bad dream is a good dream

This morning I slept until 9:15, unusually late only because Kadi and Butch normally wake me up well before then. As often happens when I sleep late, I had a recurrent dream, one I've had so many times previously I couldn't begin to count them. Some of you have probably had this one, too.

It's an extremely frustrating dream in which I have to go to the bathroom and can't find one to use. I'll walk into the bathroom in someone's home and find a little sign on the toilet saying, "Out of order, please don't use." I'll stop to use the restroom in a public place, but there won't be a door on the stall, and other people will be in there. I'll find a toilet that's private enough to suit me, only to discover that the last person to use it peed all over the seat.

Obstacles like those I mentioned in the last paragraph occur almost every time I have this dream, but other versions of the dream have featured some really bizarre obstacles. One time, I stood in line to use the only toilet available at an elegant catering hall. The man who appeared to be in charge of things (judging by his tuxedo and my internal dream translator) said the banquet wasn't due to start for another half hour, so it was okay to use the facilities until guests arrived. All the people in line ahead of me went through the door and used the bathroom with no apparent problem. When it was my turn, however, I was shocked to discover that the toilet was set up in plain sight, right in the center of dozens of white-clothed, centerpiece-topped tables. Still, I needed to go so badly that I stepped up and began to lift my skirt in preparation to do the deed. Wouldn't you know it? Waiters bearing trays of water glasses began pouring into the room. I straightened my skirt and made a hasty exit, feeling more desperate than ever.

In this morning's version, it was my husband who repeatedly required my assistance with one damned thing or another just as I was about to get to a usable bathroom. My husband in this dream was capably played by a young Tom Selleck. I suppose my subconscious mind must have plucked him from a recent news item about his affiliation with the National Rifle Association. Whatever. I'm still annoyed with him as I write this.

I figured out a long time ago what this dream-theme means, and Edgar Cayce's website confirms it: "...very often...we have dreams that correspond to physiological sensations. For example, very often people dream that they have to use a restroom, only to awaken and discover that they literally have to use the restroom. Because we have been taught that it is only appropriate to go to the bathroom in certain places, the dream imagery shows the dreamer inappropriate places because it would certainly be inappropriate to go while asleep."

This is not my favorite recurring dream, by any means, but I -- and my clean, dry sheets -- have learned to appreciate it.

He always was fond of the grand gesture

This is the first Father's Day to roll around since I started my blog earlier this year, so yesterday I thought quite a bit about which of the many fathers in my life would be the subject of today's post. My son-in-law and brother-in-law, along with my second husband, deserve recognition for having had the courage to expand their families, their responsibilities, and their hearts to marry women with children. My brother was a trouper about taking on Mr. Mom duties with aplomb. So was my uncle, who is especially in my thoughts because his daughter is seriously ill right now. Then there is my children's birth father. We didn't get much right together, but by God, we made some great kids.

The central father figure in the first 14 years of my life was my grandfather, "Packy," shown here with my sister and my cousin. His comfortable presence and quiet strength made me feel safe. It never occurred to me even once that having my mother, my sister and me in his home might have been a burden. If it was, he carried it willingly and without complaint. He was steadfast and reliable. He was where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be, and I trusted him completely.






My new stepfather became the "man of the house" when I was 14, and we had some rocky times at first. I thought I didn't need a stepfather; things had been just fine the way they were. I knew I didn't want to move to Texas. I was as obnoxious as only a 14-year-old girl can be, but it didn't scare him away. He stuck around for the long haul. When I was an adult, living far away, his house was where I "went home." It was my mother's house, too, of course, but it felt normal, natural, and really good for him to be there.



And then there's my birth father, who missed most of my life. He was only 19 when I was born, and he left with the Army the day before I turned three months old. I saw him only sporadically when I was young, but he was important enough to me that I remember a lot of those times in some detail. When my father popped into town, he usually managed to make his visit somewhat spectacular. He'd take my sister and me for a ride in a fancy foreign car or buy each of us an armload of dresses. He bought my sister her first car, and, after I was married, he bought furniture for my new home. He was witty and charming, and he was regretful. We appreciated his gifts but recognized the guilty feelings that motivated them. In a way, the gifts made me hold him at arm's length. I didn't want him to think my love was for sale.

In the late '80s, having come to terms with many of his own issues, my dad came back into my life. This time he came easily. There were no more lavish gifts. Instead, he gave me what I'd always wanted, gifts of himself. He visited multiple times. He wrote, he called, he told me stories about his life and his second family, and he asked me questions about my life. He befriended my children and delighted my granddaughter.

His guilt had kept him away. Now, for the first time, he stepped beyond his regrets and became a part of my life. He listened, offered advice when I asked for it, and discussed with me for hours whatever was on my mind. He told me he loved me, and he told me he believed in me. He helped me to feel confident that I could handle whatever was thrown my way.

In 1997, I visited him at his home in California for the first time. I met his second family and bonded with them instantly. It was a visit I'll always remember, and it came just in the nick of time. Six weeks later, he was gone.

Or maybe not. In the early hours of this morning, I dreamed that my daughters and I were sitting on my bed, looking at old photos. After a while, we walked back into the livingroom and found it full of tall, green trees--not plants or flowers, but large trees--in beautiful pots. There were five of them, all different, tucked into nooks around the room, giving it the feeling of a magical place in the forest. My daughters and I stared in amazement, not quite believing what we were seeing, and then we noticed a florist's card stuck into one of the pots.

I pulled out the card, opened the tiny envelope, and thought at first that there'd been a mistake. The card was printed to read "Happy Father's Day," and I, of course, have never been a father. Looking more closely, I could see faint traces of ink, where someone had written something below the printed message. I took the card to the window, opened the blinds to let the bright sunlight in, and looked at it again. There, in his own handwriting, was my father's full name. I was so overcome with awe and joy that I immediately burst into tears. It was those wet, happy tears that woke me this morning.

Happy Father's Day to you, too, Fats. This time you really outdid yourself.

Today I'm keeping my shirt on

This morning, sleeping late, I dreamed another version of a dream I’ve had several times before: the finding-yourself-topless-in-public dream. This time I was in the backseat of my younger daughter’s car, going to lunch with her and her friend from work, when I glanced down and discovered that I’d overlooked putting on either a bra or a blouse before I left home that morning. This was all highly shocking and distressing to me, though not totally inconceivable, given some of my past fashion lapses.

Nobody else seemed to have noticed, thank goodness, but I worried that it was just a matter of time. We passed a little strip mall (no pun intended), and I suggested that we pop into a clothing store there to check the sales before we ate lunch. Fortunately, my companions agreed, and I tried to cover myself with my big purse as we left the car and went into the store.

Wouldn’t you know it? This was a children’s clothing store--nothing to fit me--and there were lots of moms and kids in there who passed by me as I hid behind a rack of Osh Kosh B’Gosh. My daughter and her friend were taking their time, excited about the good sale prices, but I just wanted to get the heck out of there. Still, though, nobody in the store gave me a second look.

In the dream, I was thinking to my anguished and embarrassed self, “I’ve dreamed about this, but I can’t believe it’s actually happening.” Isn’t that weird? My dream self was aware of having dreamed this experience previously, which only served to make this dream seem all the more real.

I can’t tell you how glad I was when my real-life phone rang and woke me up. The fact that this is apparently a very common dream theme did little to diminish the vestiges of anxiety that lingered until well after breakfast.

Shout "Hallelujah!"

I'm one of the many people who think of themselves as spiritual rather than religious. It's been a long, long time since I've been to church, unless you count weddings, but last night I dreamed about it. In the dream, a friend and I went for the first time to one of those huge mega-churches that are popping up all over. Not the decorous sanctuaries I experienced in the Baptist church of my youth, the Methodist church of my teens, or the oh-so-sophisticated Unitarian Universalist church I attended for a while as an adult. This was the kind of church I see on TV, where the music is lively and the people are standing on their feet, waving their open hands in the air, faces raised up to the Heavens. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

Since my dream-friend and I had never attended that kind of church before, we agreed before going inside that we'd just watch the other people and try to blend in--sit when they sat, stand when they stood, etc. It seemed like a good plan, but it started unraveling almost immediately. First of all, we got separated because of the large crowd. I ended up sitting in a section of pews that were placed at an angle to those where my friend sat. From my position I could clearly see her in her front-row seat.

Another person also caught my interest. Standing on the floor in front of the stage and a short distance away from the preacher, there was a lady who was using American Sign Language to interpret the service for a group of deaf people. The deaf people, coincidentally, were in the first few rows near my friend. As the choir sang, the deaf people signed along with the interpretor, "singing" the lyrics, and when the hymn ended, they all quieted their hands and watched the interpretor as she translated what was being said.

The sermon began. I listened to the preacher, but I watched the congregation. I got busy sitting, standing and waving as the others did, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something I couldn't quite wrap my brain around. My friend, it seemed, had chosen the interpretor as her model for how to behave in this church. I watched in disbelief as my friend mimicked the sign language motions, moving her hands and fingers, touching her face or her chest, exactly in sync with the interpretor. It was actually quite fascinating.

I didn't want my friend to embarrass herself, so I focused all my energy on her, willing her to look in my direction. When she finally did, I began mimicking the sign language motions, too, accompanying them with a frown and a side-to-side shake of my head. My friend didn't understand that I was signaling her to stop. Instead, my fake-signing seemed to offer her affirmation, so she gave me a big smile and continued even more vigorously. "No sweat," her smile seemed to say. "I'm down with this."

And then I noticed that a couple of the hands-high-in-the-air people were looking back and forth between my friend and me, both of us doing sign language now, and one by one they began joining in. Like a wave at a baseball game, the sign language movement grew from the front of the church to the very last row in the back. The pastor, caught up in the fervor of his own voice, didn't seem to notice. Nor did the interpretor.

As the choir began to sing again, this time a rousing gospel number, the interpretor started swaying to the music while she signed the lyrics, which started my friend and all the deaf people swaying and signing, and then the entire congregation began swaying and signing like crazy, all in unison--all except me. I had stopped by that time and was just standing there, watching all those people dressed up in their Sunday best, joyous expressions on their faces, looking to me like spaced-out, signing line dancers.

The dream ended then, at the point where I was feeling alone in the crowd and wondering (not for the first time in my life) why I was the only one who seemed to think there was a problem with everyone just goin' with the flow.