Drifter's Dream

Dreams are spirit's way of communicating, and always, their aim is to heal, no matter what form they seem to take. our education is to lead to our healing. and always, their aim of healing is so that we know love. to know that we are always loved, and no matter where we wander in life, that we can never leave love, only forget. so all we have to do is remember. and presto!

so, as i say, any time a person is lost in sorrow, they can decide, (because they have a powerful mind that can choose) to stay in sorrow, or they can decide they have finished with it, appreciate what it taught us, embrace how it has enriched us, but not be trapped by it. sorrow is part of life, but we need to know we have a whole life, and that includes joy, in endlessness.

The room was dark and the door was cracked open. I was standing close to it when a current rushed in, softly, through the lower half of the opening. It moved around me, surrounding me with itself as it did, bringing a vision to me. As if it were telling me a story.The story was about a person who wanted to go somewhere and chose to travel in a raft. From the moment the journey began, the destination was lost and the raft was simply moving upon the surface of some 'place'. As I watched, I felt what the person felt, and there being no other distraction, wanted to take hold of the raft with one hand by a convenient handle, the other holding tight to a rope attached on the other side. The raft caught the wind, lifted up and skated across the water. We were skating, sailing, me and this person, one and the same, sharing the movement and freedom from the same lens. It was fantastic! But then we separated, the movement slowed, and I could see that the raft was only floating, the person was alone. There was no place for the rafter to return to, nor could be seen any place ahead where he might land. And as I lifted away from this scene, I could see that there was none, anywhere. The journeyer had been dreaming, and I, I realized, had been his dream.

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

I thought about you Friday. I knew your birthday was the following day, the twelfth. The day after the 11th, which was my day. I thought about the dates being next to each other. Sorta like me and you.

I thought about all the times you smiled at me and called me 'sweetie'. About the millions of times you stopped what you were doing to help me in some way. The engine inspections before I'd drive home with the kids. The trips to the house when you'd lend a hand with my projects. The restaurants when I was hungry. And all the times your counseling degree from 'Hard Knocks U' came in handy. I thought about all these things briefly. I had something else asking for my attention.

And for these two days since, these thoughts kept close by. Oh, the time it takes to live! I came to you when I could and shared the inner workings of your dear daughter. I'm sure that these talks often lead to the added confusion that children serve a parent. Or a female can cause in a male. You'd listen. And god, how you must have worried at times! Geesh, the scary stuff I've done that you heard about. Or (I'm sure) imagined. I see now, being older, how you managed all that stress. We love. But we learn to let go, too. Eventually. (Probably due more to self preservation than our self education, but wait, isn't that saying the same thing?)

If things were different, I'm sure we'd have had another visit that Friday. But you're there. And I'm not. And our talks aren't so frequent these days. We try to hit the main points about what's going on in our lives and send a hug over the phone. But a lot remains unsaid...like in this letter.

Two days to think about your birthday. About the brownies I wanted to introduce you to. I thought about calling. I wanted to. But I didn't. I thought about the conversation we might have had...you'd fill me in and have a few laughs with me then put mom on the phone. You never minded letting us girls have all the fun. And I'd listen and have a good time hearing about the Snyder saga, with its cast of comedian losers and slightly insane heroes. A small lot. Mostly likeable, most of the time. Some managed a fine performance of love. And some had stagefright. Unable to get the lines right in the beginning, but later learned to live them. Unlike the 'perfect' actor who took his bow, his practiced, perfect bow, amid wild applause from the critics, only to find frustration and self-contempt lurking just outside the spotlight. We're a crazy bunch, as families go. But we all found a way to love one another. Didn't we?

I thought about the sweet brownie experience I wanted to share with you, never mind about the birthday. And how I've spent time telling this new boy about the father I had, the one I have. The dad that meant so much to me so many times. And this new man listens as I bring the players to life. We laugh. And I think about my choice of birthday gift...and I know that if it were me, I'd find that the knowing were by far the sweeter of the two. And so, my lovely father, I send you this letter.

But I'm sending the brownies anyway-just in case!

Frog and Toad

It was very thoughtful of father to have placed the new pile of soft sand right beside the house. I didn't notice how it came to be there, and had no idea that it would soon be used to cement together the bricks piled beside it. Small children do not bother with these notions, and concern themselves entirely with the moment at hand. It must have rained recently because the sand was very moist, and it sculpted very nicely. After making some small ‘roads' in the sandpile, I began construction of a magnificent tunnel. I scooped out more and more of the damp sand, reaching further and further into the mound, until finally my entire arm was involved to the shoulder. Accompanied with this last handful of wet sand, to my everlasting horrification, was a large, warty, toad. My reaction was one of complete mortification as I stared at the monster perched on my outstretched hand. I was nearly paralyzed with fear but somehow managed to find my lungs and use them at full capacity. Father must have imagined some kind of an accident, probably involving a broken bone or blood, knowing that there were so many dangers outside as he was in the midst of some major construction at the time. He came racing out of the house in a panic. I was so relieved to see him but instead of him removing the foul thing from my hand, he hesitated a moment, and what was worse, he broke out in a broad smile. I do not know why I was unable to shake the thing off my own hand, nor why I was not able to stop screaming. But I clearly remember that it seemed an eternity until father ‘saved' me from certain death. I never played in sandpiles much after that, and NEVER scooped out wet sand again with my bare hands. Frog, toad, makes no difference to me what they're called. I have never been the least bit comfortable whenever I might possibly find myself close to one.

And now, living in the south, this presents a problem of some inconvenience. We have the evil little things all over, and what's worse, with these rubbery green devils called treefrogs, you can't always predict where they'll hop next, and that is the cause of one of my worst anxieties. Even in moments of total isolation I am unable to feel completely safe from their attack, as you will shortly understand.

I was driving the car from our home in Robertsdale out to my in-laws place about 4 miles away. Clay was in the front seat beside me, and Ryan was in the back. We were talking very casually as I sped down the long hill on the way. I was doing 70 as we headed back up the incline, when suddenly……After all these years it is still a shocking memory…..something fell from the roof of the car, and went right inside my blouse. I do not remember anything afterwards of my own memory, but I know that Clay reacted immediately and handled the car for me, as my universe consisted of just me and that mind numbing terror inside of my clothing.. Clay and I both know that if it wasn't for his instant reflexes, we would have all been killed right then. So, my family might not have the same fear for these creatures that I have, but they certainly respect mine. They always help look out for them at night, especially around the front door, where they like to spend their nights. I know they are there, patiently waiting for their next attack.

Gramma and Poppy's House

When I think back to my early years, I always find little pockets of time that I have kept in cozy, well-protected recesses of my mind, a mind that has leaked most of its contents, and eroded most of what's left. But there stands out a few warm memories, and like all of us, I enjoy disturbing their slumber every now and then.

My most pleasant memories of those years seem to revolve always around the many days and nights and weekend stays that I spent at my grandparents. My maternal grandparents were always referred to as "Gramma and Poppy". They were wonderful grandparents, and brought a tremendous amount of happiness into our lives. I can think back to the very earliest times and remember being excited about getting to go see them, and what was even better were the times when we, each in our own turn, would be allowed to spend the night over there.

That house and that yard are the home for many memories, and all of them happy ones. I was the only one of us three kids old enough to remember their previous residence, 15 miles away. It was a small, plain house set in a plain, small town in northeastern Ohio. My uncle Dave, who was just 6 years my elder, had a bedroom at the top of the stairs. One day we were crouched down on his bedroom floor totally absorbed in the little hamster inside a metal cage who was running and running inside a little metal wheel. This was Dave's latest acquisition and one that was irresistibly entertaining for the four year old niece who pushed tiny fingers between the bars in a vain attempt to play with the living toy. A voice called from the foot of the stairs and my uncle goes to the door, then turns back and says something to me most curious. I was strictly forbidden to play with the furry thing until he returned from his trip with my grandfather. And then, he picked up a small glass bottle of aspirin, and said to me very sternly that I was NOT to give any of these to the hamster. Dave sat the aspirin bottle on the chest by the door, and left me alone with the little white pills and an irresistible ball of fur. I remember that I immediately fed the hamster all the aspirin it cared to eat. And perhaps more, who knows? Later, no one was more surprised than I to find Dave's new hamster lying limp on the floor of its tiny cage.

The old house had a tiny front porch, just large enough to sit a couple of lawn chairs. I remember it was getting dark at the end of a warm summer day and my grandparents sat outside in the lawn chairs under the little porch as lightning was filling the sky and the thunder was cracking. I was afraid of the loud noise, and I asked my grandmother why she wasn't afraid as well. She and Poppy were watching the sky like it was entertainment, and not the least bit worried looking. I remember that Gramma tried to explain to me that it was just the weather and that was all it took to make me realize that I too should be enjoying the show. And I have to this day.

By the time my youngest brother was born, they were living in a small city neighborhood, in a well-tended, but older 2 story white house, that sat across from the playground of an elementary school. There were sidewalks and light traffic, and the old house, which had once stood as the only resident upon many acres of wilderness, was now pressed about from every direction with more modern homes. The newer homes were all smaller, and their yards were tiny. And they all lacked the special charm and character that came with the old architecture and style of Gramma and Poppy's place. The original owners were Romanian, and relatively wealthy. They had several children, and sometime later, when the land was divided, the smaller streets that were added were given their names. The small plot of land that remained to old house was still much larger than any of the others around, although it was still just a small yard. It came equipped with about 6 cherry trees that lined the short drive, and a couple of apple trees and lilac bushes. There was room for a small garden, and a separate garage.

We had fun times in this yard. My grandfather always kept it groomed and when we got older, we were allowed to "help out". I remember the first time I was allowed to use the riding lawn mower to actually cut the grass. Poppy was busy with an electric trimming machine and warned me about the cord. "Whatever you do, don't run over it!" Within about two minutes my grandfather was asking himself "Why did I let her on that mower?" Not long after they moved into this house, my grandparent had a family get together that was very unique in my history of family functions. An odd looking, large metal box of some sort was set up under the big cherry tree. There were hot coals underneath, and a large galvanized tub filled with funny looking rocks and covered with water. The yard filled with cars. The whole place had been transformed into one gigantic picnic park, complete with strangers. There were a lot of old people there that day, and once I was placed on the lap of one who was especially so. I didn't like it at all, and so I stayed very busy after that playing with the children. I must have been a bratty pest and my dear uncle was getting the best of my attentions. He chased me down and pinned my skinny arms tight to the ground, and proceeded to tickle my ribs until I was breathless. My dad must have heard my screams, and as he pulled my uncle away I was certain that he had just saved me from giggling to death.

The adults were eating the cooked "rocks", they smelled funny and I asked what they were. "Clams". Well, I wasn't going to eat any of those things, no way. But Dave and I were given some marshmellows and spent our time toasting them over the coals. It wasn't easy for a five year old, and I found that the tub of water that held the clams was just perfect for extinguishing my candy. My grandfather's uncle Andy lived only about 25 miles away. He was the one who had supplied the clambake, and I am sure there was a lot of beer and music that day. Andy was by all accounts a good man and lots of fun to have around, although I do not remember him myself. He died not long afterwards. He left behind a wife, Aunt Marie, who came to see us now and then, and her youngest son, little Andy, would always come along. Little Andy had a rather funny name, because although he was the younger Andy, he was certainly not smaller. Andy was born retarded and remained always a child. When I was just a kid myself I thought he was a lot of fun to play with, not many big people came to visit us and played with us, too. But Andy always did. Later I came to understand the enormous responsibility that Aunt Marie carried. But she was always such a happy woman, and so kind. Being an adult myself now I can understand these things, that our generosity can sometimes be quite expensive, but we do not count its cost with those we love.

We had lots of fun in the basement beneath the house, where we were allowed to make all the noise we wanted and play as long as we cared. It had a concrete floor, although not a level one. There was a strange little door on the back wall that was always kept closed. We looked inside a couple of times at Gramma's fruit cellar, but we stayed out of that creepy place. One of our favorite things to do in the basement were to strap the pair of steel roller skates to our shoes and go around and around the floor. Past the washing machine, around the furnace, and between the steel columns that supported the floor above. The skates were noisy, and we were as well. And sometimes there would be a dog or two, barking and chasing us around. Once my Uncle Dave came down there with Sparky and tied a sausage to his short tail. We laughed till we cried at the crazy dog spinning around and around trying to catch the tasty treat behind him. There was an enormous tank at one end of the basement, damp and rusting in places. It was the water tank and us little kids liked to hide behind it when we played hide and seek. That was my all time favorite thing to do, as anyone who knows me is well aware. I found every hiding spot in the whole place, and I was such an expert at sneaking that even the adults were stumped at times. Not that they played hide-and-seek with us kids. But there were a few times that I got to test my skill at hiding, when I knew I wasn't supposed to be. But there was no way my little brother and sister could catch an old pro like me. I had discovered lots of secret places, and kept them in mind for later use. One of these secrets was the laundry chute in the bathroom upstairs. I would disappear just like a magician, and that worked pretty well until they discovered it for themselves some years later. I suppose I came down a few notches on their list from a prestigious position of ‘super sneak' to just a bratty big sister who had a few cheap tricks.

There was an upstairs that was used for storage mostly, but we often went up there to play, and explore, as well. The three of us children once nosed into the attic space up there and found an old chest that we were certain contained pirate's treasure. When we opened the lid and found only a few old newspapers and odds and ends, we agreed that our grandmother must have already plundered the treasure. We went to her with this and asked where she had put it, as we wanted to see it for ourselves. At the top of the stairs in the main room was a row of small windows that overlooked the front yard, and the playground beyond. We could open these windows, remove the screens, and climb out onto the roof. We did this a couple of times to watch fireworks from a distance, or just to sit for a few minutes. But Gramma did not like this at all, and there not being much else we could do out there, we didn't sit there much. There was a large closet up there that had a wonderful assortment of out dated clothing, and we would help ourselves to any costume we cared to wear. My brother and sister and I would pretend we were performers, and took turns putting on ‘shows' for the other two.When we were older, the upstairs was once used for my pajama party, and my girlfriends and I had a night of talking and laughing like the silly little girls that we were. The next room was used for many years as Poppy's train room. He had an old fashioned train set that he put together, and restored, and accessorised the whole thing with miniatures. It was his one great hobby, besides his music, and he spent a lot of happy times up there with us kids running his train. I know that Dave enjoyed this as well, because I saw his own model train outfit that he put together as an adult. When I went to visit Dave many years later, and was being shown his train set, I saw the same kind of expression that Poppy had back then.

That house and that yard are the home for many memories, and all of them happy ones.I was the only one of us three kids old enough to remember their previous residence, 15 miles away. It was a small, plain house set in a plain, small town in northeastern Ohio. My uncle Dave, who was just 6 years my elder, had a bedroom at the top of the stairs. One day we were crouched down on his bedroom floor totally absorbed in the little hamster inside a metal cage who was running and running inside a little metal wheel. This was Dave's latest acquisition and one that was irresistibly entertaining for the four year old niece who pushed tiny fingers between the bars in a vain attempt to play with the living toy. A voice called from the foot of the stairs and my uncle goes to the door, then turns back and says something to me most curious. I was strictly forbidden to play with the furry thing until he returned from his trip with my grandfather. And then, he picked up a small glass bottle of aspirin, and said to me very sternly that I was NOT to give any of these to the hamster. Dave sat the aspirin bottle on the chest by the door, and left me alone with the little white pills and an irresistible ball of fur. I remember that I immediately fed the hamster all the aspirin it cared to eat. And perhaps more, who knows? Later, no one was more surprised than I to find Dave's new hamster lying limp on the floor of its tiny cage.

The old house had a tiny front porch, just large enough to sit a couple of lawn chairs. I remember it was getting dark at the end of a warm summer day and my grandparents sat outside in the lawn chairs under the little porch as lightning was filling the sky and the thunder was cracking. I was afraid of the loud noise, and I asked my grandmother why she wasn't afraid as well. She and Poppy were watching the sky like it was entertainment, and not the least bit worried looking. I remember that Gramma tried to explain to me that it was just the weather and that was all it took to make me realize that I too should be enjoying the show. And I have to this day.

There were lots of times when we stayed at Gramma's, Poppy worked on the railroad and would be gone for two or three days at a time and often she would have one or the other of us kids come stay with her when he was away. We would do all sorts of fun things, special things, together like going fishing in a pond, or picking blackberries in the untamed and uncharted areas behind their property. One time Gramma showed me how to make a kite with nothing but newspaper, sticks, and home made glue. The only thing we had to buy was the string. I don't remember if it flew, but I can never forget the time we spent together making it. Gramma was industrious and did things that I thought were more interesting than the things that my mother did. Gramma made cherry pies with the cherries we'd pick, and she liked to paint the house, and I got to help. Of course, no one was going to care about the basement walls, and if the brush dripped on the floor, who was going to complain?

And while Gramma did most of the caretaking when we were there, there were a few times when Poppy would wind up in charge of things. Once, when I was a bit older, we were left in his care on a lazy summer day. Poppy had just finished mowing the yard with his little red riding lawn mower, and told us to get in the car. We went to the chocolate shop one mile away, and a few minutes later, my grandfather had set up his command station under the shade of the largest cherry tree. He had a lawn chair, a small table, a gas can and funnel, the bag of little chocolates, and his can of beer. He had rigged the rider with the western flyer attached behind, and I was now allowed to drive the circuit of the backyard with my little brother and sister in tow. At each pass we were handed either a chocolate, or a swig of Poppy's beer. We were having a blast, all of us. Gramma returned, with my parents, and Poppy was promptly relieved of duty.

Poppy was a terrific grandpa. He took us to places for amusement, and sometimes I am sure that he was more "amused" than we were. He took Gramma and me to Niagara Falls one time, and we stopped along the way back to ride a big rollercoaster. He went on for a second time, while I waited, rather sick, on the bench with Gramma. Poppy liked to go out with Gramma and they would frequent some of the local pubs, the old kind where you could walk in with your family, tune up the strings on your guitar, or banjo, and start up a lot of fun and excitement. I went to these small taverns tucked away in friendly old neighborhoods, with my grandparents, and had a lot of fun dancing, laughing, and perhaps even had a few swallows of Poppy's beer. My grandfather always enjoyed making music, and he was quite talented with his banjo. The house where his memory lives still is filled with the echoes of the happy sounds he made. What a wonderful gift he had. And what a better one he left with us. Gramma misses him very much, they were always very close. She lives still in the well tended old house that is filled with all the years of my early memories. I haven't been there much since I left Ohio at age 14, but I went back to visit when I could. The house got smaller somehow and the cherry trees are gone. But I love that place still, and my grandparents, always.

Where Do Babies Come From?

Back when Aric was very little, we used to buy Pampers in a printed cardboard box. Usually, the empty box was used to take out trash. But one day Ryan and Travis found that if they turned the box over and removed the cardboard flap, they had a perfect size baby go-kart. It slid across the carpet with turbo-charged power supplied by the big bubbas, complete with sound effects. The boys were having so much fun, I thought it was a good time to take a picture of them all together.

Much later, Aric found the photo of this event and after some thoughtful examination asked if it was taken when we first brought him home from the store! I was so surprised and wanted to laugh, but I could see how completely serious he was. So I just agreed and asked him how he figured it all out. And I guess it wasn't all that hard to put it together. There's a picture of a small baldy type baby on the Pamper box in the photo and a small baldy type baby that appeared to be emerging while the two smiling bubbas look on. Yes, I could see how he came up with that, and then he asked me (so seriously!) which store I bought him at. Oh, I was laughing so hard inside, but answered matter-of-factly that we got him from WalMarts. You can imagine the phone call to Grandma.

Later, Aric would make statements of gratitude like "Thanks, Mom, for picking ME!" or "I'm so glad you brought me home to live with you". And I, too, would say things to him like how lucky we were to have picked HIS box. Well, one night in Mississippi when he was three, he and I were riding in the back of Mom's car and he was sleepy and grouchy and we just happened to be stopping at (where else?) WalMarts. Mom had a brilliant idea about taking back "the merchandise" and handed me a comb. She said to fix his hair real cute and JUST MAYBE I could still get a refund for him. I combed his hair and he kept messing it back up. It was funny but he did behave after that and so I didn't have to explain in front of him how I'd like to get a refund for my son.

One day when he was five or six, Aric asked if Clay and I also got purchased at WalMarts. I told him no, and explained that back then they didn't have WalMarts, and that I came from a KMart. An enlightened "Oh." his only comment.

Why Dad Cooks Better Than Mom

Back in the early eighties, Clay and I lived for awhile in Atlanta. Now one of the nice things about a big city are all the big stores and Atlanta had a few monster sized grocerie stores. It was Saturday and we had all the usual weekly stuff to get. We spent a long time getting through with the job and by the time we got back home, it was after lunch. I don't like to make little kids wait to eat when they are hungry and so I had bought for Ryan a little pizza that I could pop in the oven and give to him while we put away all the stuff from the store and made our lunch. I opened the box and turned the knob to heat the oven, when all of a sudden Ryan started yelling and crying. I turned around to inspect him and then tried to make sense out of what he was saying.

He pleaded frantically with me not to turn the oven on. I was thinking to myself that there was something missing here. Ryan begged to have his FATHER turn on the oven, PLEASE! When I asked him why he wanted to have Dad turn on the oven and not Mom, he cried "Because [sniff sniff] I'm scared of that smoke detector!"

What Makes the Wind Blow, Dad?

It was a long time ago and we were just little kids, but being the oldest I can still remember overhearing my little sister as she asked Dad about some basic stuff. One of those ordinary kinds of questions that kids wonder about. We were watching the tops of the trees moving back and forth in the breeze and she asked Dad, "What makes the wind blow?" Before he would say anything else, he asked what she thought the answer might be. Well, wasn't it obvious? Anyone could see that it must be the trees swishing about that was making all that wind! Children have such remarkable wisdom.