You May Say I’m a Dreamer

You may say I’m a dreamer, and in my household I am the only one. Where my dreams are typically vividly technicolored, Studly Doright’s are seemingly non-existent. So when I got this text first thing Monday morning, I was intrigued:

(Ignore the odd punctuation. If I’d known this was going to be blog fodder (blodder?) I’d have taken more pains with my text.)

According to Studly, he never dreams. Of course I’ve informed him that we all dream every night, but not everyone remembers their dreams. Stubbornly he persists in claiming that he is the exception.

All day I waited for him to come home, so I could hear the details. Part of me hoped he’d dreamed winning lottery numbers. Had that been the case, I’d have bought a dozen tickets immediately. Another part of me was concerned he’d dreamed about his soul mate–and it wasn’t me! As promised in the text I made potato soup for dinner, always with one part of my brain on Studly’s dream. Do I need a life? Most likely.

The second he walked in the door I asked the million dollar question. “What was the dream?”

“Mmmm, that soup smells good!”

“Damn it, you don’t get soup until you spill the dream beans.”

He said, “It was weird. The whole time I was dreaming I kept thinking it was the kind of dream you’d have.

“There was this creature, maybe an alien, maybe an animal, and a little boy. Somehow they communicated, and if there was any danger the creature would surround the boy with a protective cloaking shield.”

I managed to nod encouragingly, all hopes of a winning lottery number dashed.

“And this kid had family members he could pull inside the shield.”

“So, what happened?”

“Nothing! I couldn’t get past the shield part. The dream never moved forward. It was frustrating.”

As we ate our potato soup and cornbread I tried my amateur dream interpretation skills on him:

1) Studly is the little boy who feels like he needs protection for himself and his loved ones.

2) Or he is the outsider providing protection for others.

3) Or he had an upset stomach and as a result a weird dream.

4) Or he was hoping for potato soup for dinner.

At least he didn’t dream about his soul mate. Unless, of course, the alien filled that role.

Peace, people!

The Finer Things in Life

Potato soup and

Warm cornbread 

An ice cold glass

Of Borden’s milk.

Fuzzy kittens in

Cradled arms

With fur as soft

As the finest silk.

A child’s warm

Heartfelt embrace

I love you Nana

The sweetest grace.

The finer things

Aren’t steeply priced

When simple love

Will always suffice.

 

great nephew Michael and our youngest granddaughter Harper.
 
 

Feeling a little sentimental today, and oh so very lucky. (I borrowed that from my friend Janie, a lucky, lucky girl.)

Peace, people!