The Recurring Dream

One upon a time there was a young girl sitting at the breakfast table hunched over her cereal bowl, just as she was every weekday morning. Each morning this girl would tell her unlistening family about her recurring dream, a dream she had nearly every night. “What are you babbling on about?” snapped her older, incredibly tedious sister. This sliver of attention was her cue to retell the dream again, in the hopes someone would take an interest.  She recited to her scurrying family how when she goes to sleep each night she watches and feels herself inflating like a balloon, then floating out of her bedroom window.  She drifts gently down the street and above the town. She could calibrate her elevation, speed and direction easily in the dream and would often challenge her ability to direct her inflated self agily through tree branches and over power lines. This flying part was the best part of the dream really.  It was the best feeling she has ever had in her entire life.  

One morning she didn’t arrive at the breakfast table as usual.  Her self absorbed and aloof family barely noticed her absence.  Once her vacancy was finally noted by her mother, her heavy, over -competent sister was sent trodding down the hall to see if she was still asleep in her  room.  

“Hey brat, wake up”  the sister barked as she pushed her way into the overdone 1970s modern decorated room.  There were four walls painted tan with a parallel orange and dirt brown stripe geometrically looping across the entire wall. The bed is rumpled, slept in, not made, empty.  Quick glances beneath the bed and in the closet, both empty.  The older sister quickly clobbers back down the hall with her report “She’s not there!”

The mother shuffles into goes to the missing daughters bedroom and sits on the still warm bed.  The family scatters to search for other parts of the house.   Slowly, and lackadaisical at first, calling out her name, eventually they slip slowly into a panic and begin rushing from room to room. They all gradually return to the missing girls room. The mother holds a bed pillow to her face, breathes it in and begins to cry.  The idea that her baby has been kidnapped percolates through her thoughts.  All are standing in the room with the blatant exception of its owner.  The missing girls  dog, Sam,  wanders in and leaps upon his mistresses vacant bed. He is the silent observer, loyal, knowing all but never letting on.

The father prepares himself for work, his departing words to his wife are “stop sniffling, I am certain she is pulling a prank. She’ll turn up, like a bad penny, always does.”  He then turns accusatory towards the oldest “and I’m sure you’re in on this!” He glares at them both as he drives away in his yellow Toyota Supra with slanted black matte spoiler and matching hubs.

The older sister rolls her eyes and simply denies any knowledge of where the brat is.  Grumbling “where is the plug to the hot rollers?” she just knew her punk  younger sister had it last. She begrudgingly leaves for school with flat hair.

The mother, finally alone in the house, begins in earnest to investigate her youngest daughter’s disappearance. She carefully looks through drawers and in the back of her closet, is anything missing?  Would she know if something was?  Is there a note? She silently wonders about  all the animal posters with catchy sayings taped on the ceiling.  How long has she had those up?  What shoes does she have on?  She goes to the phone mounted in the hall and makes calls to neighbors and friends. She doesn’t notice the fuzzy bit of navy blue fabric snagged on the aluminum window pane. 

Back in the empty room, in the empty bed, under the warm sheets, next to Sam lies the young girl.  She is back in her own body, back in her own room, back to her normal size.  She tosses back her covers and softly pads her way to the breakfast table to her bowl of cereal lying in wait for her. As she begins to slurp the milk on the spoon she notices a small tear on the bottom hem of her NASA stars and planets pjs.  The End

Almost

The man who was almost my father was a Boston Bruin goalie.   Brent, a youthful, strong athlete in the prime of his life, handsome in his iconic black and gold uniform with imposing B set in sharp features.  His sculpted jaw and cleft chin were saved by the grace of the recently adopted facemask for NHL goalies.  But oh those pads, the pads oddly were an attraction, something about getting a black round hard plastic puck being shot at your body at upwards of 100  mph over and over in a game.  Brent was my mom’s fiance.

Even though engaged, my mother was easily convinced by her very convincing best friend Pat, to give up a boring night at home listening to records and polishing her nails to instead attend the Saturday night USO dance in the hall of their local church. Her goalie fiance at the time was playing an away game in Canada (Boston lost 6-1 to the Canadians that night). This loss was just  the beginning of many losses for Brent personally and professionally. Coincidentally Boston ended up in the basement of final standings that season.

My mother prepped for the dance. Teased and sprayed her hair, wearing stiff petticoats under her full skirt cinched at the waist to strategically showcase her slender figure.  Pat wore a sweater set with matching tapered pants - perfectly matching pumps and handbags.

My father, Mike,  was an enlisted Army private, carefree, tanned, with ocean streaked blonde hair, as only a Southern Californian boy can have.  Growing up his days were filled with surfing, fast cars, and beach parties. Mike was strikingly handsome in his dress uniform of crisp tan pants with army green overcoat pulled taut across his chest and  broad shoulders with a thick belt.   Brent was almost as handsome in his very different uniform, almost.

If there is a thing as love at first sight they saw it.  My mom, much to her surprise, found herself dancing, laughing and eventually walking outside with the handsome private. Perhaps it was the  punch, the heat of the hall, stuffiness of the room, the warmth of the night seeping onto the dance floor like a fog, the laughter of dear friends, cigarette smoke, or the music, Whatever the cause of the enchantment, so it was. As she succumbed to a tender kiss goodnight she knew Mike’s mischievous twinkling blue eyes would never leave her heart.

That fateful Saturday night USO dance, when my father lost his  game in Montreal, my future was sealed. This almost-ness is perhaps why I have a thing for hockey players. My first love was a high school hockey star and I’ve had several from afar crushes through the years on those broken nose, adorable missing teeth, brutal, endearing hockey players.  

Now nearly 60 years later I found a picture of Brent Gable.  It was an old image on a Boston Bruins players trading card without much value, yet it made my heart flutter to see him smiling back at me, he eerily resembles my Dad.  They could almost have been brothers.

The Young Girl Dancing

The van smells of patchouli, dog hair, incense and cake.  She is being expertly piloted through the dark wooded roads by the driving and navigation team of Dad and Uncle.  Her mother deftly balancing a cake with five lit candles on her knees as the chorus of “Happy Birthday” begins.  Full of love and raw joy, she catches her father’s eye in the rear view mirror, as her Uncle turned towards her offering her a tenderly wrapped small package.  

The van is a wheeled extension of their home. It is fully lined with tapestries and oriental carpets, smothered in the sweet aroma of Nag Champa.  Music, in the van or at home, was always playing or being played, creating a soundtrack to her life.  With the family’s hairy mut lying on her feet, her belly full of birthday cake, the sway of the van up and around the winding roads reminding her of a very comforting rollercoaster, she fell asleep quickly,.  She slept only as a five year old can, with the innocence and sacredness of never doubting “all is well” in the world surrounding her like a cloud.

She woke with the bright sun beaming onto her cherub face mashed with dog hair.  She emerged from the deep snuggle of her red cotton sleeping bag, “Pandy”’s side flattened from the pressure of her head while she slept.  As she sat up she habitually reshaped the polyester stuffed panda bear that her dad had won for her last year at the fair. Sleep flitted from her being. She could already hear the music from the distance, calling her to fully awake and smack into her family’s campfire breakfast of pancakes, bacon and orange juice. 

Consciously preparing for her first day as a five year old she stepped into a colorful cotton slip of a dress her mother had made for her earlier that summer. Commenting as she measured and sewed through gritted teeth full of pins “she's in another growth spurt” and as if in a parental call and response, “Growing like a weed” is what her dad would say immediately after.  The dress was just a few months old, yellow, her favorite color, spattered with a light floral pattern but was already too short.  Her legs, still carrying a touch of toddlerhood ojas, were elongating and poked out from the rising hemline.  She slipped on the beaded bracelet her uncle had given her the night before, it fit perfectly and she already knew she would cherish and wear it every day.  It was just like the bead she always admired around his neck, large, brown, entwined on a rough rope.  He wore it every single day. 

Forgoing her usual braids, she made the five year old decision to let her long blonde hair flow free, free to fly when on the swings, free to twirl when flipping cartwheels and free to stream wildly with her when she danced.  Her mom tied her dad’s old blue bandana loosely around her neck.  They were ready.

Her small hand anticipatorily engulfed in the huge calloused palm of her dad’s as they set off across the field, this small pod of a family, passing through other’s campsites, the blue haze of their morning fires sputtering into the thick air.  As they walked triple stride through puddles from last night's rain, they got closer to the sound of the music. The camps grew closer and closer together.  She tried to be respectful and tiptoe around tents and over the sleeping bundles of bodies wrapped in blankets on the ground. More and more people, tighter with every step. As they crested the hill she stood in wonder at the field below. Never before had she seen so many people in one place. The stage in the distance was secondary to the mass of humanity laid out before it with contrasting yellow tarps lining the sides of the field offering shade, first aid, and food for those ill prepared.

Stopping to take it all in she was nearly distanced from her pod.  Like the vigilant watchful bird he was, her Uncle swooped next to her gently humming into her ear “stay close, little bug, don’t want you to get lost in this crowd”.  They found a spot on the side of the hill and laid out their red and black plaid blanket. The were enveloped between the others, a mandala of softness, hair, bodies, scents, smiles, words and rhythms. 

Her mom’s brother was perpetually shirtless 19 year old.  His white skivvies ever so slightly rose above his work-pant waistband when he danced a certain way. His young facial hair darkening his upper lip, his black hair was relatively short compared to the current style.  He was tall and easy to spot in a crowd, his ever present bead bouncing and rebounding with his every move.  He was like her shadow, a crow, simply there, never intruding, never overstepping, often never even really talking, a peaceful guardian. 

With his sister’s nod of approval he took the new five year old and led her closer to the stage, slowly they inched their way through the masses.  Their hands never leaving each other’s, and once he even snatched her up like a sack of potatoes and landed her high on his broad tanned shoulders as he walked.  They found their spot.  He took off his shoes. She took off her shoes.  He began to move, she mimicked him.  She saw his elbows bend, his head cocked to the side, a smile across his face, the bouncing bead around his neck.  She followed suit, she allowed the music to wash over her, to feel the energy of the others, the moving and shaking swaying and gliding breathing of the collective. 

Her eyes closed, the music entered her and her body responded, the lyrics diving into her ears  at first, then deep into her soul.  Even without full comprehension of the lyrics, the feeling behind them couldn’t be translated.  She didn’t resist their force on her sweet open heart.  She felt transported to somewhere else while simultaneously fully feeling a  part of the whole. 

Click.  

A picture, a snap of an image, a holding of time forever.