Adventures in dreamland and in reality

Some adventures:

Exercising: The other day Maddie and I inadvertently went for a run when we ran into our runner friend Ellen and a friend of hers who had hiked the whole Appalachian Trail. We joined up with them while they finished their walk, but I didn't want to hold them up (as some people know I've gotten kinda slow) so for every one step they took, I jogged a few to keep up...sort of how I walk with Ben.

We ended up at Ellen and Mike's house, where luckily I got a glass of water and a ride back.

Looking out Ozawa Hall

Music: I went with Ken Ross to the opening of the Festival of Contemporary Music at Tanglewood. I couldn't make much sense of it but after reading Ken's review I understood it better. He was kind enough to put up with me whispering, "Are we going to get some melody next?" He smiled and shook his head no. Despite the mosquitos, it was fun to go and sit in the beautiful Ozawa Hall and look inside and out. Always great to do things with friends from the newspaper biz because you never run out of things to talk about.

Inside Ozawa Hall

Speaking of the newspaper business: I walked into Thornes Marketplace in Northampton the other day and bumped into an old friend from the Transcript-Telegram, Diana Carter, who had bumped into another friend from the T-T, Barry Werth, and his wife, Kathy Goos. I walked over and said, "Is this a T-T reunion?" Barry said that at any minute, Greg Pearson might walk in.

We fell right into an easy conversation as though no time had passed. By the way, when I say "old" in these instances, I mean old as in length of friendship and not as in years!

Dreamland meets reality: I dreamt that I was walking down a street and saw Patty Rosenfield, a friend from Atlantic Beach, and gave her a big hug. Then we saw her brother Tommy walking down the street and called him over for a group hug. The next day I learned that their father had died.

Recurring dream: I dreamt that my mother told me she was going on a long trip to faraway countries and wouldn't be able to call me. I told her I was really upset and actually angry because I needed to hear from her. She said I had grown too attached to her, like she had done with her own mother, and she wanted to help me get some distance. I said it was too late for that and woke up feeling sad.

Feeling pathetic, taking action: Yesterday I had that bereft feeling of wondering where everyone went. Parents departed from the earth, children departed from the area. I called Carolyn and said hello from a person who was feeling lonely and wondering if anything was going on. She said come on down for hotdogs. So I picked up some corn and tomatoes, put Maddie in the car and went on down to Springfield for a cookout with good friends and good conversation for me and two dogs for Maddie: the famous Theo and an adorable golden doodle puppy who Carolyn and Chip are babysitting.

Maddie enjoyed playing tug-of-war with the puppy and even let him climb all over her. They put him in the crate and she went over to see where her little friend had gone. I enjoyed talking to like-minded friends and went back home no longer feeling sad.

The really really weird dream show

Sometimes my dreams are more interesting than my life.

Last night I dreamt that while I was still at the newspaper, a friend who is president of a large corporation offered me a job. I would get paid more and work in a much nicer place. For some reason I knew that my newspaper days would end in the near future but I wasn't sure I was ready to go.

I asked what I would be doing and she said that I would be working with people who were recording oral histories. My job was to make sure the recordings had a good ending.

I said I would be good at that because I knew this from my news writing: "Use the best thing first and save the second best for the end."

But then I wouldn't be writing. I would miss that too much.

And I said that I would be more comfortable at the grungy newspaper with the dirt falling onto our desks from the ceiling vents. (This really happened. Every day we would have to come in and wipe the desk calendar off.)

So I went into the office and went to my desk (which in some of my work nightmares has disappeared along with my computer terminal or my lamp and which in some cases is occupied by somebody else) and saw the spookiest thing: The calendar that covered my whole desk, and on which I had scribbled dates and reminders, was still on April.

April was the last month I worked in 2003 before going to Dana-Farber for cancer treatment. I wrote it in my little book. April 4, 2003, last day of work.

I thought I should change it but I didn't do it.

A moment frozen in time.

The night before I had a nightmare that is part of a series about things that have happened to me.

This time it was my skin.

I went to the dermatologist to have her check out a scaly spot on my ankle. (A spot which is actually there but which I'm not supposed to be worried about.)

She said it looked horrible and started slashing at it with a knife. She cut up so much of my skin that I had to wear a cast on that leg. Then I went out with some people to go somewhere and encountered a swamp full of muck. I had no choice but to get the leg thing dirty while we waded through the muck. I was nervous about messing up my skin but we got to dry land and it seemed to be OK.

Dreams...on the court and in the kitchen

I dream I am inside, playing a doubles match. I am at the net. A long point is playing out cross-court, out of my reach. I get almost hypnotized watching the ball go back and forth. Suddenly the ball comes to me! I am not prepared. But I recover. Whack! I hit a sharply angled volley, unreachable. Whew. Wow. My partner and I win the point, and the game.

At the changeover, I look around and realize there are lots of people watching and, for some reason, others just milling around. It’s crowded in there. I remember that I am not supposed to be there. I have to get out of there. I panic. I find a woman who looks official and I stammer out an explanation. Not feeling well. Not supposed to be here. Bone marrow transplant. Germs.

A substitute materializes. The match will go on, without me. I feel guilty about interrupting the match and scared that I will get sicker. But I'm still happy about that volley.

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I dream that we are emptying out the apartment in New York. My father is there; my mother has just died. (In reality he died first, and both parents were gone when Diane and I cleaned the apartment out more than two years ago). I look through a dining room cabinet. Crystal punch glasses. Miniature tea sets. Delicate napkin holders. Beautiful china. Cocktail napkins with pretty designs.

My father and I go into the tiny galley kitchen (so small that four of us could never fit there, although three could squeeze in like sardines.) I look in the kitchen cabinet, full of the things I remember, right where they belonged. Calcium pills, vitamins and prescriptions on the bottom shelf. Above, Saltines, LeSeur peas, tuna, tea biscuits, dark-chocolate-covered "Little Schoolboy" cookies.

I start crying. “I wish I could be 13, no maybe 14, and go to school and come home and all of us have dinner together,” I say to my father.

He smiles, warmly, sadly, lovingly. “Don’t we all,” he says. “Don’t we all.”

When I wake up, I lie under my quilt, thinking about this second dream for a long time.
In reality, of course, 13 is not exactly always a picnic. But who doesn’t wish to go back to a time before anything really bad happened, a time when someone else took care of us?

If I went back, none of the bad things would have happened.
But none of the good things, most notably my children, would have happened either.