When is a dream…NOT a dream?

Yesterday morning I had THE most vivid “dream” — I put quotations around the word dream because it was more like an interactive “experience”.

I found myself walking up a long dirt and gravel road, coming to a small whitewashed building, much like a smaller version of the Woodglen General Store, or Rambo’s, if you will.

My Dad was out front, except he was NOT the Dad that *I* have ever known — he was in his late-30’s to early-40’s, with jet-black hair, and he was wearing all of his “favorites” from different respective time-periods in his life — his favorite mint green short-sleeve button-down “dress shirt” that became relegated to the work shirt pile, circa 1965-1969, his favorite work shorts with side pockets, circa 1975, and his favorite work boots, circa 1968-1978.

He was walking tall and easy, with long, even strides – like he’s NEVER walked since I’ve known him. He had a “helper” who was helping him stir the paint and get all the painting supplies ready; apparently they were gonna repaint the outside of the aforementioned building.

He seemed REAL happy to be busy working – I asked him if he was O.K., and he said “Of course!”

As had become rote for me, I checked his “diaper” and colostomy bag — he had NEITHER! Then I asked him where Lorelei was (his personal favorite of our recent cats, since she looked a LOT like his cat “Tippy”), and he directed me to the inside of the building; lo and behold, when I entered, she came running up to me and climbed up in my arms, all purring and nuzzling!

It smelled like a warm spring day, and the sun felt good coming through the clean clear windows, as I sat cross-legged and loved on my ole’ favorite cat, watching my young Dad apply even strokes of white paint on the side of the building…

One year ago today Dad died… Sometimes I STILL strain to listen for him while I’m in here at the computer. I could have taken SO much better care of him than I did. Lost my temper WAY too much; too short too often with the poor, confused, almost blind guy.

Like he always said: “Gettin’ old ain’t for pussies.” Fuckin’-A right, Pop – fuckin’-A right…


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