I Missed The Train
(A reprise – one of my favorite posts from a few years ago)
I Missed The Train
The current heat wave reminds me of the first time I ever wanted to be a grown-up.
Some kids can’t wait to grow up; but not me.
I liked being a kid. I could not picture life without dolls and make-believe. Being an adult looked awful, almost as bad as being a boy – who seemed to do nothing but pretend to shoot each other. Sure grown-ups could still swim and ride bicycles and play cards, but they didn’t seem to have much fun doing it.
I wanted to wear makeup, of course, but I didn’t see a reason why I couldn’t be a kid and wear makeup too. Makeup is part of make-believe – and that was my right as a kid.
No, I didn’t want to grow up.
Until a hot summer trip in 1962 to Washington DC.
My family traveled by train from Connecticut to Washington for my father’s military reunion.
And that train ride changed everything.
The six of us – Dad, Mom, my two older sisters, my little brother and me – were joined by my parents’ best friends and their two daughters.
My sisters were only a year apart in age, and the older of the friends’ daughters was their age too.
The younger daughter Jan was a rambunctious nine-year-old. I was eleven. I had, up to this point, always had great fun with Jan.
I had never been on a train before. The train car had seats that faced each other. This reminded me of a stagecoach like on Bonanza and I was delighted.
My parents sat with their friends, with my little brother between Mom and Dad. The older girls quickly settled down into seats that faced a group of boys. I sat separately with Jan.
Sooner or later, an active little girl can get on the nerves of a daydreamer little girl. A seven hour train ride did it for me.
Jan was up and down and back and forth. She seemed to especially enjoy going to the ladies’ room, as if there were something enthralling about peeing on a train. She needed to visit her mother constantly. She needed a snack every ten minutes. And she wanted to sit by the window…no, the aisle…no, the window. And her method of getting past me was just to crawl over me. I had footprints on my skirt. What a baby.
And from where I sat, I could see my sisters, Christine and Claudia, with Jan’s sister Barbara. Sitting with those boys.
I hated boys.
But on the other hand, there was an awful lot of giggling going on with those boys. It seemed to me the boys even treated the girls to a soda. Like in Archie and Veronica.
I couldn’t hear their conversation. But I knew from Popeye that boys mostly liked to show their muscles to girls. So I imagined that there was a lot of muscle demonstration going on.
And suddenly I was jealous. I wanted to sit on the train with boys. I wanted to be laughing with boys. I wanted to flirt. I wanted to be grown up like my sisters. (who were 14 and 15.)
We saw all kinds of historic things in Washington on that trip. But I only remember the oppressive heat. And that train ride.
But I realize now that I missed my opportunity to get my wish.
For many years, I had a job which required me to take the train to New York once a week. I got to ride on the train with boys.
But all these guys had their laptops and their cell phones and their Wall Street Journals.
Where were the cokes? Where was the laughter? The flirting?
Years of riding on the train with boys and not once – NOT ONCE – did a boy show me his muscles.
I’m so disappointed. Being an adult sucks as much as I thought it did.
*
Smart Is Smart
Everyone always says how they are constantly amazed by children.
Everyone but me. I almost never say that.
Oh yeah, I think kids are cute and say cute things. Except of course when they are bratty and say bratty things.
But for the most part they are predictable. Kids learn, and when they learn something, it’s kind of cool the way you can actually see the light bulb going on over their heads. And I admit that it’s also cool to watch them interact and try to figure out grownups.
But there is a universality in children that you must admit sometimes loses its ability to inspire awe. I mean, EVERY parent thinks her kid is amazing…and most people watching think “not so much.”
We were all kids once and learned to talk and dress ourselves and read and count and not pee in our pants.
And your kids learns that. Wonderful. He’s normal, not a genius.
Once in a while though, I am impressed.
Last night my husband and I joined our friends in that classiest of entertainment – the Demolition Derby. I had been there was before (Renaissance Woman) and surprised myself by enjoying it tremendously. It’s not the ballet. But in it’s own way it’s almost as good.
Next to me on the bleachers was a young boy and his buddy. This kid was maybe eleven. The age at which most adults start to dislike even their own kids. But for some reason, I’ve always liked pre-teens. They are able to have a real conversation with you, but are still young enough to have interesting opinions.
He was a pretty big kid – chunky and red-cheeked. And loud. He loved the demo derby – and knew a lot about cars and destruction.
This was a Double Figure Eight Race – a combination race and demolition derby – with six to eight cars in each round racing around the track in a kind of DNA helix pattern – which lends itself to smash-ups as they cross paths. The winner of each round then goes to the finals. And after the finals, they just completely demolish each other in a last-car-standing free-for-all.
And this kid picked the winner in almost every round. A couple of laps in, he’d say to his buddy: “Number 24 can really drive – he’ll win!” Or “Look at how Number 41 takes those corners.” Or “Sixty-five is on his rims, he’ll never last – sixty-six will pass him for sure.”
If I had been able to spot a bookie (I’m sure they were there, but how the hell do I know what they look like?) – I would have jumped up after each prediction by this kid and put some money down. Maybe I’d have even bought the kid a hot dog.
I believe that SMART has three components: Knowledge, Observation, and Imagination. The ability to draw accurate conclusions from what you see and what you know.
And this kid had it in spades. He knew cars, he watched the drivers, he evaluated the situations. And he knew who would win. Round after round.
That kind of SMART can be applied to everything.
Just from sitting next to him for an hour, I can draw my own conclusion: That kid will make good informed decisions his whole life.
It was all I could do not to ask him:
“Hey kid, I just heard some disconcerting news about my doctor, and now I am questioning my diagnosis. Would you be available for a second opinion?”
After all.
SMART is SMART.
But We’re Safe
Maybe I can just ignore it, and I can fall asleep anyway, and not have to deal with it until tomorrow, I think.
It’s such a little thing. Hardly noticeable, I think.
See, Hubby can sleep. I’m being ridiculous, I think.
I can count it, like counting sheep. It will make be drowsy, I think.
Right.
Every 15 seconds.
Do you know how many 15 second intervals there are in an hour? 240.
And how about in 2 1/2 hours? 600.
It turns out that 600 is my limit. That’s how much I tolerate before I drag myself out of bed.
Of course, this is only the beginning of the 1:30 AM mystery.
Back when I was a kid, my parent’s house had two smoke detectors. One on the first floor and one on the second. But we’ve gotten more careful.
Instead of inventing ONE smoke detector that can sense smoke anywhere in the house – which you think we just might be able to in the last 50 years – someone has decided that a much better idea would be to install a smoke detector every seven feet. Just in case it is a very small amount of smoke. I guess in case Fido is smoking a joint in the attic.
I know you think I am exaggerating, because I am a writer – and well, because I am a writer.
But our house has SEVENTEEN smoke detectors.
No kidding.
It’s a big house. But it’s not Versailles, for God’s sake.
SEVENTEEN.
So now I have to find out which one is chirping.
This means standing under each one – if I can remember where they are – and waiting till the next chirp.
Bedroom is an easy elimination. The sound seems more distant. So out to the hallway. I am barefoot, so I am hoping than none of the three cats has puked since we went to bed (which would actually be kind of a miracle).
You may be wondering why my husband isn’t involved in the search party. He hasn’t woken. He sometimes doesn’t hear the smoke detector GOING OFF, never mind a brief, tiny chirping. I could wake him, but he couldn’t search the house. He would have no idea if he were standing under the offending unit.
Not the hallway. Why does the fifteen second interval between chirps now become 60 seconds? I do not know the answer. But I know it is the truth.
Not the little room I use as my office.
Not the guest bedroom.
I go downstairs and wait in the kitchen. But no, the next chirp sounds distinctly UP. That may eliminate four more. Maybe.
Here’s another question. Why, if the battery is dying, but there is enough power to chirp, why oh why can’t that power make a little flag pop out that would say, “IT’S ME!”?
I go back up and into the storage area over my husband’s office. The cats hang here, so I am in grave foot danger.
But then I hear it.
It’s right over my head! Hooray.
Now that I have identified the culprit, I can take care of this. Only.
Only it is just out of my reach. And I don’t know where the batteries are.
Besides, I need to wake up my husband. Why should I be so annoyed by myself?
He staggers out of bed. He puts on his slippers. It’s safe now that I have tested all the floors like a naked minesweeper, but he never goes barefoot. He doesn’t go to the bathroom barefoot.
I point. He pulls the damn cover off and goes somewhere where he hides batteries.
I go back to bed.
Five minutes later he joins me.
We wait. No chirping. (Although how would HE know?)
And we wait for sleep that doesn’t come.
We turn on the TV.
Which would have drowned out the damn chirping in the first place.
*
No Pictures Please
Last night I made a fabulous caprese salad. It wasn’t actually fabulous because of anything I did – but how can you go wrong with tomatoes and basil straight from the garden, and fresh mozzarella – all drizzled with extra virgin olive oil?
It was so delicious and so beautiful, that I immediately pulled out my phone for a quick photo. And stopped.
What the hell?????
How I miss those days when you had to buy film and pay for each print – how preciously we hoarded our 12 shots per film.
I blame Social Media in general. I blame Facebook in particular.
We’ve evolved to a place where we need to document and share every little moment of our lives. And we need to have a photo to accompany the documentation of these moments.
I’m not absolving myself. I do it too. And I love Facebook – I love reading about everyone’s big and trivial events. I love seeing their photos.
But I think we may need to pull back a bit.
Here – in order – are the photos I love to see.
- Your kids. I love seeing your children. I especially love the candid shots that reflect their pure joy of experiencing the world the way I wish I still did.
- Your pets. I am just being kind by putting your kids first. Your pets are really first. Because, let’s face it, dogs and cats are just plain more photogenic than kids. Especially because your kids are not exactly always reflecting their pure joy – they are mostly just mugging for the camera.
- Your selfies. I love selfies. I love to see your faces – because I love you guys – and the selfies you choose to publish also tell me a lot about how you are seeing yourself. So I get to see your face and your mind.
- Your throw-back photos. When you post some ancient crinkled picture, I see my old friends as we were – and the memories are so sweet. And for my new friends – seeing an old photo of the you that I did not know is like finding a piece of a big jigsaw puzzle – another piece leading me to the solution of who you are.
And in moderation, I also like:
- Your vacation pictures. I like to see you happy and excited, and I also like the exotic distant scenery. Be kind though – pick the best 5 shots. Don’t remind me of the long long slide-shows my relatives subjected me to as a kid.
- The weather. Huge snowpiles and rainbows and big black clouds are sort of interesting. Rain: not so much.
But enough already.
Admit it. There are things we don’t really need to see.
I’m guilty. I know. But I swear I am going to try to follow my own advice.
So here’s what I could live without:
- Traffic. I know you’re bored on long car rides. But the traffic from your windshield? Please don’t bore me too.
- Along the same lines: please refrain from departure gates. And “Welcome To” signs. I’m thrilled to see you standing in front of the Taj Mahal. It’s a little less compelling when you are standing in line at the airport McDonalds.
- Wrapped gifts. Your Christmas tree is fine (though one shot per year will suffice.) But I don’t understand the frequent pictures of wrapped Christmas and Birthday presents. I’m not even particularly interested in what you GOT – never mind the box it came in.
- Movie stars. Yes, we are all fans for someone or other. But unless Brad Pitt is actually hugging you, you can skip the photo. I know what he looks like. And Johnny Depp. And Elvis. And even (sigh) James Taylor.
- The back of your kids’ heads. You may think you are both artsy and respecting your kids’ privacy by always shooting them from behind. But honestly? I’ve seen enough cowlicks and ponytails. Either show me the front of your kids or don’t show me at all. I’d like to see their smiling faces. Not their little behinds.
And FINALLY.
Back to FOOD.
We all eat.
All the time.
I like my food. I don’t care about your food.
I don’t need to see your soup, your steak, your lobster, your omelet, your au gratin potatoes, your ice cream cone, your julienned carrots, your steamed clams, your fancy coffee, your pumpkin pie.
Or your caprese salad.
Not my caprese salad. That’s why I can show it to you.
Growing Up
I have been reflecting on my lack of a summer vacation this year.
I’m not complaining. We had a fabulous trip to Jamaica in March – which will satisfy us for a year at least. Maybe two years if we want to pay for that trip before we travel again.
We have a beautiful yard and a patio that is just made for reading and napping. And for variety, napping and reading.
So I’m happy.
But there’s something about going away on vacation that makes you step outside yourself. As much as I love the comfortable, secure feeling of being home, there’s something about being AWAY that makes me feel like someone new.
I remember my first “grown-up” vacation.
1969. I had just graduated from high school. I had never had a vacation without Mom and Dad and the whole family. My mother entertained me with tales of her first “adult” vacation. She had been about my age. She said it was the sweetest memory – being on her own for the very first time. Grown-up. She was enthusiastic about giving me a similar experience.
So my father helped me rent a cottage in Westbrook, Connecticut from one of his friends. Dad drove me down there the week before vacation to show me where it was. I was awed. It was more than a cottage – it was a lovely four-bedroom home a block from the beach.
My two best friends and I pooled our money. It was a little tight because we thought we might want to eat a little something while we were there. So we got another girl to pitch in too. She was a quiet girl I didn’t know well, but she planned on spending her week with a pile of books – so she was okay by me.
We drove down in my friend Chris’s car – which was a Mustang. In 1969, that was about as good as it got.
We had our linens and towels and clothes and whatever food our mothers packed up for us. But we didn’t really bring too much food – we wanted to grocery-shop for ourselves. How sweet it seemed to actually pick out your own food.
First things first, though. How better to feel like a grown-up than to have an immediate crisis?
Almost upon arriving, Chris fell down the stairs. On the landing she hit the wall hard with her foot. Her toe immediately swelled up.
We looked in the phone book for a hospital, but didn’t see anything nearby. I was supposed to be a grown-up. I hated the thought of calling my mother. But Mom was a nurse and would know what to do, so I swallowed my pride and called. “It’s probably broken,” Mom said. “But don’t worry about it. Broken toes just mend on their own.”
And so, eighteen and on vacation, I didn’t worry about it.
We didn’t call our parents again for the rest of the week. We were on vacation. We were AWAY. We were adults. We were an HOUR away from home.
Chris was a trouper too. She had a hard time driving, but she did her best, and she reluctantly (since it was her Dad’s car, really) let one of us get behind the wheel once in a while. I’d had my license for 40 whole days, so Chris wisely excluded me from the driver’s pool.
My other friend Mary and I set up a card table on the big screened front porch. We even found a tablecloth. We took all our meals there, in the cool ocean breeze. Breakfast on the porch. Coffee and toast with marmalade.
A couple of boys came to visit – the boy Mary was seeing, and his friend – who in my mind was the most gorgeous boy I ever met. I flirted shamelessly. I had a two piece bathing suit and a tan. What more did I need?
The weather was spectacular – dry and hot. Where the heat rose from the pavement in waves. Waves on the water. Waves on the road. The radio played “Sweet Caroline” three times an hour.
We ate mostly hotdogs and potato chips. One evening, we went out to eat at a very nice restaurant that overlooked the marina. I had lobster. Truly a grown-up meal. I wanted a glass of wine – but we were under the legal age. I didn’t even try to pass for 21 – I may have been 18, but I looked 15.
We went to an inexpensive drive-in that specialized in second-run films. We propped Chris’s foot on a pillow and watched “Barefoot in the Park.” I had never before seen Robert Redford. I approved.
Every evening, Mary and I brewed another pot of coffee and retired to the porch. Most nights we sat on that porch till 3:00AM, whispering and giggling and telling secrets in the dark.
She wanted to be an artist. I wanted to be a nurse.
“I think you will be something else,” Mary said.
She was right.
High School Graduation, 1969. A Grown-Up.
Eavesdropping
As I writer, it is perfectly acceptable, and practically a professional requirement, for me to eavesdrop.
How else would I know how teenagers whine, or families fight, or men flirt (yeah, I’ve been married THAT long) – in order to get it right in my stories?
Restaurants are especially good. Booths are best, because you can listen to the people behind you so inconspicuously. I listened to the complete story of a guy’s divorce that way once. It was terrific. (The story, not the divorce.)
Last year my husband and I were in one of the more prestigious restaurants in town to celebrate our anniversary. The weather was really bad, and the only other diners there were the actor Sam Waterston and his companion (wife, maybe…I have no idea.) But anyway, my husband was professing his love, and being quite romantic, so it was pretty much a bust as an eavesdropping occasion. I thought I heard “Woody Allen” in Mr. Waterston’s conversation, but I could hardly say to Hubby, “Shushh, I’m listening to the next table,” it being our anniversary and all.
But last night made up for all of that.
My husband and I had been out shopping, and stopped at a Chinese restaurant that we like. The food isn’t even all that good at this place. It’s just that about 20 years ago, an old friend of my husband’s called us out of the blue to say that he and an associate were in Connecticut on business, and asked us to join them for dinner.We met at this Chinese restaurant near their hotel. We had one of the most fun evenings we had ever had. We laughed ourselves silly that night, and now we can’t even remember what we were so silly about. I do remember a lot of wine. But 20 years later, we still like that restaurant. We call it Gus’s Chinese Joint.
So last night, we are eating at Gus’s Chinese Joint. My husband was quiet. He was tired and preoccupied. This is not a necessarily a bad thing if you like to eavesdrop.
A family was two booths down from us, but there was no one in between. I couldn’t see them well behind my husband’s generously sized head, but oh my, their conversation was Choice.
It was Mom and Dad and Son and Daughter, both of the kids around college age. Mom and Dad and Son had very soft voices. I strained, but couldn’t really make out what they were saying.
But Daughter was clear and LOUD. And her side of the conversation alone was enough. In fact, I think I enjoyed it more because I had to imagine what everyone else was saying, as I listened to only one-fourth of the dialog.
“Now that you are a JP and all,” said Daughter, “I suppose you will want to officiate at my wedding. If I ever have one.”
That sentence was pretty cool. I like to think she was addressing her mother.
And then the kicker.
I wouldn’t say she hollered. It was more of a very loud gasp.
“OMG! You shaved your chest! Why on earth would you shave your chest?????”
And just when I strained to hear how her brother would answer, her old man tore open his shirt Superman-style.
“Oh DAD! That is so gross!!!!”
That fifty-something father of two had been manscaping. And he bared his chest in Gus’s Chinese Joint.
Daughter was shocked.
I like to think that Mom was laughing her ass off.
**
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Epiphany!
Do you ever have one of those moments?
When suddenly you realize something important?
Today I had a revelation.
And it is not only something important. It is MAJOR IMPORTANT.
I’ve been having a rotten month. Worrying about my work, my coming retirement, my house, my finances, my family. I’m not a worrier by nature. I’m usually quite lighthearted. But when I do get in a worry mode – it tends to be FULL-OUT WOE.
And this month I have felt like I am walking around in the dark. I can’t see where I am going. But I can’t stop. I just keep walking anyway – into potholes and dead ends and fences. I’m distraught.
And today I saw a video.
And there it was.
My problem completely exposed.
I’m carrying a big box of shit that I think I might someday want – and it’s blocking my vision.
All I need to do
IS
PUT
DOWN
THE
DAMN
BOX!
A Revisionist Role Model
I never liked cartoons much when I was a kid.
I hated the silliness and the weird ping-pongy background music and what was basically the same plot over and over: Tom and Jerry, RoadRunner, Bugs Bunny – “Chase me, but I’m smarter than you.”
Oh, give me a Real Story any day. With Real People, not cartoons. I so preferred Spin and Marty on the Mickey Mouse Club as opposed to Mickey himself.
Oh, I did like some of Disney’s animated features – “Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs” especially. But NOTHING could top “Pollyanna” (which I wrote about here)- a Real story with Real people.
One cartoon I especially disliked was Popeye.
Popeye was ugly, aggressive, and weird. And who could understand a single thing he said, anyway? Plus I never could figure out why the bad guy was sometimes called Bluto and sometimes Brutus. Because I was a kid, was I not supposed to notice? (Just FYI, the studio thought they might have a copyright problem with the name Bluto, so they changed it. But since the cartoons were never shown in order, Bluto and Brutus skipped back and forth, making me quite irritated.)
And worst of all – to me – was Olive Oyl. How I detested her.
But I was wrong.
Last night, I was reflecting on the role models I had as a kid. Pollyanna – good. Gidget – maybe not so good (although she wasn’t afraid to learn a “boy’s sport”). Cinderella – pretty bad.
And during my ruminations, I experienced a revelation.
I should have identified more with Olive Oyl.
Oh sure, she needed Popeye to save her a jillion times, and I don’t admire helplessness. But when you think about it, Olive probably got into such predicaments because she was never afraid to take a chance. Or more likely – because she always had her mind elsewhere, and so never realized the danger she was walking into. I totally get that.
And then there’s her inability to pay attention to her child. Now I never had children myself, but I am fairly certain that’s the kind of mother I would be. Lost in my daydreams while shopping for the best zucchini while my kid has climbed out of the shopping cart and into the potato bin.
You have to admire Olive’s fashion sense – in that she found a style that she liked and she stuck with it. How can you go wrong with a red blouse and black skirt? Timeless. The yellow stripe at the hem of the skirt just goes to show you that she’s unique – it’s not your average black skirt. And the big brown Doc Martens – can you be more ahead of your time?
Olive never had a lot of hair, but not too many women can carry off a bun that sticks straight out. It doesn’t get messy no matter how dire the circumstances. It even curves upward when you are in the mood for love – now that is a hairdo with a message!
Speaking of ‘the mood’… I can never hear “I’m In The Mood For Love,” without hearing it in Olive Oyl’s screechy voice. Yes, the memory of her voice has lasted more than sixty years for me. I always wanted to be unforgettable. Olive has achieved that with one song.
And most of all – her looks. When I was an immature kid, I disliked Olive Oyl because she was homely.
How short-sighted! I should have been cheering for the skinny, flat-chested, thin-lipped, gawky woman with huge feet, who still managed to see herself as sexy and alluring.
Why, Olive had men fighting over her. Constantly.
Sex appeal?
It doesn’t come from big boobs, blond hair, and high heels.
It comes from CONFIDENCE!
What a great concept.
Olive Oyl, I wouldn’t mind being just like you.
Actually, I AM just like you.
How Funky Winkerbean Changed My Life
(Time for a summer rerun)
**
First, let me assure you that not all of my Life Philosophies are derived from the Sunday comics.
That being said, I admit that Funky Winkerbean changed my life.
Do you remember hapless Les back in the 70s? (By the way, I’ve never really understood the word ‘hapless’–why does poor Les have no hap?)
Anyway, back in the high school days of the comic strip, Les asked one of the plainer girls for a date. She was very surprised he asked her, and she said so. He explained that he hadn’t had any luck asking out the popular girls and so decided that he should lower his standards.
While this didn’t exactly win over the girl, it won me over.
I’ve been setting my goals pretty low ever since. It works so much better than failure.
This is why I was able to return the beginner’s Yoga class, despite my considerable ego. For a couple of weeks I tried to graduate to the advanced class, but then I reminded myself that my goal was never to touch my feet to the back of my head in Bow. My goal was to be able to get up off the floor after Corpse.
Do I need a higher goal after ten years of Yoga? Maybe. Aspiration is a good thing. So I have decided that this year, my goal will be to stand on one foot. If I can stand on one foot, I can do Tree. I can do Eagle, Crane, and Warrior III. That will be good. That it will have taken me eleven years to stand on one foot just goes to show you how patient I am. Which is an admirable Yoga goal.
The risk of low ambitions is that you still might not exactly achieve them, and that could be a little embarrassing.
I was reminded of this a few days ago, during lunch with some friends.
One of my friends is an avid music fan, and he was speaking of Keith Richards’ autobiography. According to Richards, Marianne Faithfull was so crazy that Mick Jagger finally had to call it quits. Just think about that. How sane are you if you are not sane enough for The Rolling Stones?
And here is the clincher – the epitome of underachieving: Two of my lunch-mates were reminiscing about their high school buddies. One of their friends back then had always wanted to become a clown. And she had applied to Clown College. But she had not been accepted.
That’s a pretty low threshold to miss.
Rejection Letter. Not Clown College Material.
Best Dream Ever!
I have ordinary dreams.
Except when I was a kid.
I was nightmare prone. I couldn’t hear a ghost story without weeks of recurring and terrifying nightmares. And so, of course, my sisters and all the kids in the neighborhood just loved telling me scary stories. And I wanted to hear them. Because for my whole life, nothing is better to me than a good story. Funny, sad, scary. Just tell me a story.
As I got older though, I began to see the connection between horror stories and the frequency of my nightmares. So I have tried to stay away. No Stephen King for me. (although I read “On Writing” and “11/22/63.”)
And while I am on the subject of “11/22/63” – I have always been a bit of what they call a Conspiracy Nut. I was twelve when JFK was assassinated. And I believed, even back then, that we were not hearing the true or whole story.So I have read numerous books and studies. At one point, I read so many books in one month, that I developed a new kind of nightmare: Lee Harvey Oswald was standing at the end of bed, watching me sleep.
That’s when I cut back (a bit) on my assassination research.
And my dreams since then are ordinary.
I dream that I am back in school, and I have to take a final exam for a course I didn’t realize I had registered for, and have never attended a single class. (I have been out of school for decades – but this is still my most common dream. You too, I bet.)
Or shopping. I always dream I am shopping. Often I’ll throw in the complexity of being late for a huge event, but I NEED to buy an outfit. I am a very good shopper, but I tend to be a terrible shopper in my dreams.
Lots of people make cameo appearances in my dreams. Like, every member of my family – close or distant – and every person I ever worked with. They just pop up and disappear again. Once, in a shopping dream, I turned around in the store and the Beatles were behind me. It was very cool. And then they were gone. And in the morning, the radio said that John Lennon had been killed.
That’s not to say I’m psychic or anything. That’s about the only premonition I have ever had. And it was probably just a coincidence. But it was creepy, and it would be fun to be creepy again once in a while. Like with an ability to pick Kentucky Derby winners.
But this week I had a GREAT dream. I woke up laughing. (And if any of you out there are dream interpreters – I would love to hear what the hell this one means.)
My husband and I had adopted. A squirrel.
We had raised this little squirrel and he was one smart squirrel, so we sent him to school.
And in the dream it was Squirrel’s high school graduation. and he wore a little black cap and gown and we were very proud of his academic accomplishments.
At his graduation celebration I told Squirrel I had a present for him, and I brought out this huge electric bass.
And Squirrel was SO disappointed, because the bass was like ten times bigger than he was.
I kept a straight face for quite a while. And then I laughed, and said,
“Only joking, Squirrel! The bass if for ME. So I can accompany you. Here is your real present.”
And I took out this tiny little guitar – exactly squirrel-sized.
And Squirrel was delighted. And he played a tune right then and there, still wearing his cap and gown.
And he was GOOD.
That Squirrel could SHRED.
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