The Dream

Part III

There are a couple trucks in the driveway and they appear to be workmen.  I have no idea what I’m going to say but I get out of my car and approach them.  The shorter one takes the lead and I stammer around until I can think of no other course of action than to relate the gist of my dream. 

Instead of laughing, the short one says, “You sound just like my wife.  She puts a lot of store into her dreams”

I can see by the reaction of the other two that they are more skeptical.  And I’m really wishing I had my journal because, for the life of me, I can’t remember what their answer was.  But at this point I remember asking if anybody was named Wayne.  The tall one, with the white ponytail and beard, was the one who must have been single.  Because the short one sprang into action.  He starts telling me about how the tall one had this place down the road, just like I’m describing.

I look deep into his eyes and ask, “Do you fish?”

“Yeahh,” he says, carefully, looking at my red sandals and red patent-leather bag.  I am wearing a short, wrap-around skirt with matching short-sleeved cotton T-shirt.  My lips are red and my hair is done.  He’s looking alarmed but the short one wants to hear more.

I am noticing the tall one’s biker clothes and making noises like this was a big mistake.  The short one sees me giving up and steps in.

 “His place sounds more like what you’re talking about.”

The tall one’s just watching me but the short one has pulled out a pen and paper and says, “Give her your address.” 

He writes down his address and phone number and even his last name, and hands it to me.  He’s starting to look a little more receptive.  I thank him, shaking his hand. 

“I’ll go see if it’s the place,” I say.

 We are staring at each other, trying to make snap judgments.  I turn around to leave, feeling three sets of eyes on my back. 

I drive downstream a ways, until I find his address.  I don’t want this to be the house because there are two flags flying.  One looks like a Hell’s Angels kind of flag and the other looks like a Viet NamVet flag.  But I notice where it is on the river, and it’s much more like the dream.  I get out and go around to the back of the house.  The deck is different but I climb the stairs and peek in the windows. 

Thank God it’s not a kitchen.  I am surprised to see the expensive telescope and chair, the two lone pieces in this back sitting room.  There is a coat rack, along the wall.  Freshly laundered coats are each hanging on their hook.  This guy is tidy.  I suddenly feel like I’d invaded his privacy enough.  It was time to leave the dream behind and go home to W.

Again I forgot about Wayne.  It was writing about the Siletz that brought up the memory of the dream.  And it was when I closed my eyes and remembered standing on the deck, while he was getting the net, that I saw the hillside, as it looked in the dream.  But I was looking left. 

ALL THIS TIME I HAVE BEEN STANDING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE RIVER.

This is like when you have a conversation with somebody and after it’s over you think of the most obvious thing you could have said.  We handed in our first story tonight.  And I haven’t been to that swimming pool since probably 1987, but you’d have thought I’d at least remember the smell of chlorine.  HELLO.  Did I remember to mention the sounds?  NO.

 It’s funny that just sitting here, the echo of all those kids’ voices punctuated by the lifeguard’s whistle, that’s the first thing that comes to mind.  We were supposed to focus on the setting.  Oh, well, next time.  I need to start a checklist.  Next time smell and sound will get checked off.  I should look into finding something written by a blind writer. 

I put my name on the board, volunteering to bring 17 copies of something I’d written lately.  It wasn’t until we were leaving that he said we’d be reading our work ALOUD.  I wanted to run up and erase my name.

I’m sorry I didn’t have time to post tonight’s segment.  I will say that the next year I was with W, and pretty much forgot all about the dream.  Until one day the friend who started me going to that part of the coast, in the first place, invited me down to meet his girlfriend.  I was driving back when I saw the bridge and thought I’d go take a look at the house, just for the hell of it.  There were three guys standing in the driveway. 

I’m too tired…

tomorrow

The Dream

Part II

Another thing that’s just occurred to me is, when Wayne dipped down for the fish, did I know that was the Siletz River outside his kitchen?  ‘Cause I don’t think I did.  Not at that point.

It wasn’t until that summer, when I was camping with my dog, that I went back to the river.  It was just about time to leave, and I didn’t want to.  I’d packed up the car and loaded the dog, and I was just going to wander out towards the road that dead-ended at the campground, to see where the sound of building was coming from.  I found the trail and had just climbed over this huge log when I smelled smoke.  From out of nowhere comes this young guy, maybe 20.  He looks like trouble but he’s acting like he’s not.  He’s smoking a cigarette and says in a kind of depressed way, that he’s visiting his parents.  He motions toward the river and as I come closer, I can see the road.  He says he had to get out of the house and as I get a closer look at what must be his parent’s trailer, I can imagine why.   I move past him explaining that I am looking for property and ask where they are building.  He points to the hillside and I think it’s at that moment — Well, once I get out of his range and into safety – that I remember the dream. 

YES, now it’s coming back to me.  I followed the sounds of sawing and pounding and came to the last house on the road.  With relief I noticed the raised beds which looked like they’d been well-tended over the years.  Somebody was remodeling, and it might be Wayne.  The hillside looked a little different, too close, and I suspected the river was a little too wide up this far, but I decided to try and get a closer look.  If the kitchen was where I thought it was, with a deck over the river, this was it.   UNBELIEVABLE.

A man came out of the garage but it wasn’t him.  I asked if the owner was around.  He said, “No, but he should be back any minute.”

I could see through the garage, out to the river.  I got my nerve up and said, “Would it be all right if I took a look around?  It looks like you’re doing a great job.”

I could see that he wasn’t at all curious about who I was.  He said, “Sure,” barely noticing as I made my way around back.  I look up and sure enough, there’s the same deck, with the same back door.  The house it too new, though, too modern.  But maybe they just redid the siding and windows.  

This just seems crazy.  There’s no way to get up there and find out if that door leads from the kitchen.  I go back out front.

“Excuse me, is that the kitchen, overlooking the river, by the door?”

“Yeah, we just redid the whole thing.” 

My heart is racing, thinking Wayne is going to drive up any second.  Except the Wayne I dreamt about would never remodel his kitchen.

“So, can I ask:  This is where Wayne lives, right?”

Now I’ve got his full attention.  No car, nosing around, not a friend of the family.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks. 

I tell him my name but not why I’m there. 

He says, a little suspiciously, “Well, Mike should have been here by now, but I guess he’s not coming.”

I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.  I quickly get out of there and drive back home, not sure what to think.

To be continued…….

The Dream

My notebook is nowhere.  I looked all morning for it but gave up and had to rely on memory.  This was three years ago so that gives you an idea of how powerful the dream was for me. 

I saw him in the woods.  He was with Kerry, my painter, only Kerry was the age he’d been that first day I met him, back in ’84.  And I’m not sure it was at this point that I knew they were father and son.  I don’t remember what I was doing there, but they were busy doing something manly. Wayne, his dad, was around my age; that is we were both in our 50s.  He looked like a fisherman’s version of Crocodile Dundee, all sinewy and lean.  Not really my type.  The lean part was good but there was nothing soft about him. 

Kerry introduced us and then he was gone.  I followed Wayne back to his place, on the Siletz.  We were no sooner inside, when his neighbor appeared at the door.  She reminded me of Pam, my dad’s second wife, when they first married.  His neighbor had that same dark, short hair, the petite figure.  She was pretty in the same homespun way; just off the farm.  She’d brought him a plate of something like meatloaf.  It was approaching dusk, and I got the impression she was hoping to stay for dinner. 

I make myself scarce, sitting on the edge of the single bed, in what must be a guest room, except that the bed’s rumpled, like he’d just slept in it.  It’s adjacent to the kitchen where they’re standing.  I’m suddenly tired so I lie down and watch them through the open door.  He thanks her for the food but he’s clearly not interested and she leaves.  Being a very polite and amiable person, this takes a while.  I roll over and in between the bed and the wall, on the floor, are pieces of a puzzle.  There are just a few stray pieces, backed in red.  I can see the dull red now.  I roll back over because he’s come into the room.  I am completely at home here and look up at him, smitten. 

He takes me into the kitchen and picks up a cast-iron frying pan.  Opening the door that leads out to the deck, he grabs his net and, leaning down, scoops up a fish, right out of the river.  He plops the fish into the frying pan and standing in his spotless kitchen, with a look of adoration on his face, he offers me up his best. 

I woke up and called Melissa.  “You know how I never remember my dreams”?

Melissa says, “What time is it?”

“It’s time to get up.   Go make coffee, I want you to tell me what this means.”

It’s only when I’m explaining who Kerry is — And of course she’s stopping me with, “How much does he charge?  Is he good?”

“Can we just focus on the dream?   I mean they guy is not even my type.  He’s one of those hunter-fisherman types.”

 It was only then that I realized I had a last name.

Melissa said, “You should look him up in the phone book.  Better yet, you should call your painter and ask about his dad.”

“No, I know all about his dad.  He lives across the street from the woman Mary and I used to have coffee with, when I lived above 45^th.  You remember that playgroup?  Besides he’s gotta be 75 years old.   It’s not the right guy.” 

As I’m writing this I’m wondering if I got the name “Wayne” from the dream or if I woke up and knew his dad’s name was Wayne.  It would be like me to get to a guy’s house and not know his name.  Not that I’m loose or anything, I just have a terrible memory for names.  This is why I need to find that journal.  Anyway, the guy looked exactly like a Wayne, a name I’m not fond of.

I call Kerry, reluctantly, and relate the dream.  He’s painted inside and out for us, since 1984, but since the divorce I’ve not spoken to him.  So it’s been a while and I know H had him repaint the living room after I left.  So I’m not sure how friendly he’s feeling.  And as I spin my tale, I’m wishing I hadn’t called, except that he’s my biggest clue.  He politely gets off the phone, being no help at all, and I move to the phone book.  I find the name and dial.  Wayne picks up but he’s got the kind of twang that dashes my hopes, that and he’s married.  After embarrassing myself again, I hang up, giving up.

To be continued…

 

 

The Siletz River

 

Part II 

 

Below the parking lot, hardly visible from the deck, are various shades of grasses:  deep dark-green spikes and tall, tan, plumed stalks.  Cascading alyssum and nasturtium fall beneath the railing, down into a path of shale, set in pebble rock.  The path is not meant to be walked on, as the shale would break.  It leads down to a landing above the river, accented with a massive, squat rock, upon which four might perch.  Below this giant rock they’ve dumped two yards of a mix of rock into which several sculptures stand, framing the edge above the bank.  Behind and in front of this throne of a rock stand  three (some kind of tropical looking thing)……..s; one behind and two in front, acting as guards to the entrance. 

 

I stand in disbelief.  Somebody else saw its potential.  They saw way more than I ever could.  And they had the money and the guts to do it.  I look up and say a prayer of thanks, so grateful that people did the right thing here.  Leaning over the railing, I imagine what it must be like to sit in the sun on that mighty rock.  The geese complain but I linger, looking upstream.  I want to stand on that dock again.  I go back up to my car and notice the purple daisies still in bloom. They’ve planted them in between foliage, along the fence.  I guess they are kept warm by the big rocks they peek out from. 

 

I head toward the campground.  It’s back in about a mile.  Once I brought my bike and rode back in, as far as I could go.  I took a trail up into the woods, found a clearing and stripped down to nothing but my socks and shoes.  It was so nice I fell asleep in the sun.  But I woke up with a start, to a rustling in the bushes.  I remember getting out of there in a hurry.   Today, as I round the corner and drive down in to where I camped, the place is empty.  I park and make my way past the little store where you check in, down to the dock.  This is absolutely one of the most beautiful  stretches of river that I know of.  It’s so narrow; I could probably throw a rock and hit the other side.  I walk down to the edge of the dock, in the direction of the restaurant, and stand where I’d spent long hours in the sun, with my daughter sewing and my dog swimming.  She learned to cross-stitch that day.  I look back as far as the eye can see, to where I go berry picking. 

 

I suddenly remember that my car alarm is broken.  I made the mistake of locking the car and at any moment this serene setting could be ruined by the honk honk honking of my alarm.  I hurry back up the slick planks when I’m met by a pleasant fellow wondering if he can help me.  I explain that I was just missing the river and wanted a quick look.  He says, “You’re welcome to pull up a chair and a cup of coffee.”  And I am reminded of why I came to love this place.  The people who run it are wonderful.  I make it to my car before the alarm goes off and head back to the motel. But just as I am pulling back onto the highway, I remember the dream.

 

 

To be continued…

 

 

The Siletz

First thing the next morning, after I stop for coffee, I head to the Siletz River.  Right there at the bridge, as you turn left –I’m headed south – is the restaurant.  The last time I was here it was boarded-up and forgotten, tempting me.  It had so much promise, nestled back in by the river.  It is tucked in beneath the bridge that goes over the bay.  It’s probably five acres of river-front property that nobody had done anything with for a very long time.

The sun is shining hard but it’s a cold January morning.  I pull into the newly-graded parking lot.  There is a beautiful cedar fence, with fancy halogen lights, that extends all the way down to the river.  Someone has done wonderful things here, and I get out to see what.  The restaurant looks closed but just to make sure I peek in the window.  I can’t see much but I can see that it’s not open.  It’s not even ten o’clock.

I follow the freshly laid asphalt path down to the lower level.  The sign says “Lounge.”  On the restaurant side of the path, down to the deck, there are planter boxes in tiers,  filled with herbs for the kitchen, no doubt.  I pick a sprig of rosemary.  I bet they use the nasturtium petals as garnish.  The deck is more sheltered from the wind.  I set my tablet on the 2 X 8 slab of wood that serves as a railing around the deck.  It is the perfect width to rest drinks on.  Its backsplash is the same age but rough hewn and gradually raised in the center of the deck.  Somebody’s hand-cut it for this space, like furniture.

 Looking upstream, into the sun, I have to shield my eyes.  I have camped on this river, up around the bend.  And I’ve been up and down its banks, on a fishing boat.  The geese notice me, from the other side.  Squinting against the sun, I look across the sleepy river to see the flock standing on the bank.  Squawking at the lone intruder, they are protecting the wildlife reserve that is their side of the river.  I turn to go back up when my hand discovers the delicate rounded edge these handsome railings have.  It’s as if they were made for someone in a wheelchair.  At great expense, someone has fashioned a raised bar above the rail, for the perfect grip.  It runs the full length of the path, back up to the parking lot.

to be continued…..

ICED IN

There’s no place I need or want to go but the idea that I can’t go is what’s starting to bother me.  As with any storm, I’ve washed every bit of dirty laundry and dish I could find, just in case the power goes off.  And I made a big pot of potato soup with the last of the Honey Baked Ham:

License to Dream

Lying in bed, I knew what I wanted to say.  Sitting here in Starbucks, I am stumbling toward an explanation.  Why does that movie still make me cry? 

Our imaginations are supposed to dry up when we become grown-ups.  But what if they didn’t?  What if we fed them the way Barrie did, while he was writing Peter Pan?

ZackFuller  still has his imagination fully in tact.  And with the fanciful way he entertains us, one hardly knows what’s real and what’s not.  Crossing that line smoothly is an art.  It’s why John Irving was my favorite author.  But some years back he lost me, and I never read him again.  He’d gone too far and left me behind.  I went to the library today and checked out Widow for a Year, wanting to take another look.

As I try my voice out, making little peeps here and there, I know why I cried in the theatre.  I have found a vehicle, which validates imagination.  It allows us to fly.

Watching that truck driver this morning back his 16 wheeler, into the narrow entrance of the car lot, in pitch dark, across a four-lane highway, I marveled.  Like Barrie, the guy had faith.  He knew he was good, and he barely slowed down.  He backed that baby up, with no room for mistakes, and he stopped traffic to do it.  Guys who put themselves out there are my heroes.

Do you remember ZackFuller suggesting I see the movie “Finding Neverland”?  That’s what I did tonight, and he’s right.  Take some Kleenex.  And he’s right about it providing inspiration, too. 

Lately I’ve been glad I had a shitty childhood.  Because otherwise I wouldn’t have spent all my time reading and fantasizing.  While the rest of the class was paying attention, I was staring out the window, in another place.  I was always in a better place.  I learned at a young age to appreciate the beautiful things in life.  I can still smell the forest outside my gate, that first hot day in June.  I remember the special oatmeal soap I bought at Bergs, on Broadway, when I was finally old enough to take the bus downtown, with Melissa.  I can see my Grandmother’s garden, in her backyard on a Saturday morning.  I was the only grandchild who enjoyed the flowers.  She was so mean but she loved her flowers.

I guess what I loved the most about the movie was that it honored the fanciful.  So as I try to spice up my first assignment, “using 1500 words describe — I chose the swimming pool.   I am trying to interject some sort of strife.  You know, as I approach the climax.  This pyramid thing is a pain in the ass.  And I realize that I don’t like to read about conflict and I certainly don’t want to write about it.  Not when my girls and I are having a perfect day at the pool.  I want to write about how I close my eyes and lay out on the hot pavement, hanging out with my girlfriend like we were 16 again.  How delicious it is to have two lifeguards watching over my girls while I daydream in the sun, rising only to take a quick dip myself. 

So tell me true, would my rendition of the mountains have been more compelling if there had been…wait, I just remembered the clenched knuckles on the wheel.  That’s conflict.  So do I need to have some sort of near disaster as the girls get in the pool, to have a proper story?  Maybe I could have an indecent exchange with the lifeguard, he was only 20 years younger.

Then there’s the climax.  Can that just be when we leave or does something amazing have to happen?  I should probably buy the textbook.  Maybe it has some of these answers.