There are times that dreaming deserts me and I go weeks without remembering a single one. At times, I have dreams I wish I’d never had. This week, I had a mixed bag. It was as if the dream fairy switched on my nocturnal projector. I had one dream …
There are times that dreaming deserts me and I go weeks without remembering a single one. At times, I have dreams I wish I’d never had. This week, I had a mixed bag. It was as if the dream fairy switched on my nocturnal projector. I had one dream that dredged up something scary from the past and another one I didn’t want to end.
On Monday, a dream fragment triggered a memory I hadn’t thought of in years. It was when I was in the second grade at the old brick elementary school near the tooting tunnel in Dora. I call it the tooting tunnel because everyone that drove through it tooted their horn to hear the echo of their car horn.
It was a cold winter morning, and all the kids were in assembly. The principal, Mr. Evans, was addressing the students before classes began. After the first few announcements, a rumble sounded almost like thunder in the halls, and you could smell smoke. Mr. Evans told everyone to stay in their seats as he rushed toward the sound.
The years had weakened the concrete mortar joints in the massive brick chimney standing just behind the auditorium. It had tumbled through the roof. Coal-smoke belched from the boiler room. Had the wind been blowing out of the north, the bricks probably would have fallen into the crowded auditorium. Thankfully the furnace wasn’t damaged and there was no fire. Mr. Evans dismissed school for the remainder of the day until he was sure it was safe for the kids to return.
This dream jolted my eyes open. As I lay there, the actual memory of the event replayed through my mind in slow motion, and it took a while to go back to sleep.
On other nights I had dreams that were pleasant. I knew they were good ones, but there were no details that I could remember when I woke up.
Then last night I dreamed it snowed. In the dream, I walked barefoot onto the deck. The snow squeaked underfoot as I tottered to the edge to get a better look at the yard. It was early morning, and Cardinals were in a frenzy as they darted between hedge and huckleberry looking for a few bites before a coat of snow covered all the food.
As I stood looking to the south toward the field and barn, I was in awe of the unblemished silence. There is no other sound like that of falling snow. It’s almost like a distant whisper that you’re not quite sure you heard.
The dreams earlier in the week were like a film that had been cut and pasted back together randomly, but last night’s dream had continuity and seemed to last for hours. I didn’t want it to end.
But through my eyelids, I sensed the morning light seeping around the blinds. The snow dream was delightful, and I held on as long as possible. Smiling, I rolled out from under the cover.
Outside, the air was sweltering. After breakfast, I loaded the truck for a workshop later in the day. By the time the cooler was on the tailgate, my shirt felt as if it had wilted.
Clicking the seatbelt into the buckle, I leaned forwardlooking at the sky through the windshield and said to no one in particular, “What I wouldn’t give for that snow dream to come true right now.”
Rick Watson is a columnist and author. His latest book “Life Changes” is available on Amazon.com. You can contact him via email at firstname.lastname@example.org.