Another Night, Another Dream

.

 Ken Wilson and Me, 2008

Since the onset of the pandemic, I may have been quarantined but my dreams certainly haven't. In fact, last night I dreamed I was camping at Yosemite, which I've never actually done. Who knows where I'll dream myself tonight?

 A couple of weeks ago I dreamed Ken and I were sitting in Andechs Abbey...which we actually did in 2001 on our belated honeymoon. Here's the story about that dream: 

Relish the Present

“The future is an opaque mirror. Anyone who tries to look into it sees nothing but the dim outlines of an old and worried face.”  --Jim Bishop

It had been over a year since I’d dreamed of my late husband, Ken. Then early this morning there he was.

I’d awakened, not startled, but pleasantly suffused with peace. I breathed quietly for a few minutes before reluctantly crawling out of bed to face yet another day alone in my tiny shoebox of an apartment.

For weeks I’ve been quarantined and isolated from family and friends because of the COVID-19 pandemic, which has swept Southern California. I’ve been gripped with icy fear. In my eighties and living with an immune disorder, only once or twice have I dared to leave to visit a grocery store.

Why had Ken appeared now?  I remembered how he’d stroked my hand as we sat side by side, in my dream.  Somehow, I knew where we were. Once again, we were in the Chapel of Sorrow at Andechs Abbey, Bavaria. I longed this morning to tell Ken how comforting he was, but we didn’t exchange a word. We never do when we meet in my dreams.

I’ve wrestled with a lifelong anxiety disorder. During the nine years of our late-in-life marriage, Ken always tried to reassure me that worry was worthless. He’d spent his entire career in the gaming industry, so had a sound understanding of statistics and odds.

“Eighty-five percent of people’s worries are wasted,” he’d say. “Save your energy for what’s more important. You’re wasting precious moments of your life.”

We’d postponed our honeymoon when we married in 2000, since I’d begun working at Peace Corps Headquarters in the Capital a month after our wedding.

“We can go next year,” I’d promised. “I’ll have vacation accrued by then and you can choose where we’ll go.”

He didn’t hesitate. Ken never wasted time when it came to potential adventures.

“I want to see one more Oktoberfest,” he’d said. “It will be my fourth, but it’ll be the best since you’ll be along. You’ll learn to love German beer.”

By nature, I preferred a glass of chilled white wine to a mug of tepid beer, but I’d agreed. I knew Germany was famous for its Liebfraumilch and Riesling, as well as all that celebrated beer.

We’d made reservations early to leave October 1, 2001. Then on September 11, hijacked planes had toppled the World Trade Center. Another had crashed into The Pentagon, just miles from our home,

This morning I recalled how I’d fretted about whether we should take the trip. I’d bombarded Ken with my uncertainty: Would we be safe? Would it be foolhardy to travel at such an uncertain time? Could we deal with the new airport security hassles?

“What do you think?” I’d concluded. “The news commentators are speculating about more possible hijackings. Should we cancel the trip?”

Ken had met my rhetoric with reason.

“We’ve already arranged for a rental car at Franz Joseph airport in Munich and I remember enough German to ask for directions as we head for the Black Forest. Let’s do it. We’ll might be safer in Germany now than here in the outskirts of the capital. You’ve worked hard. You deserve a vacation.”

.

So we went. Just as we’d envisioned over a year earlier, we settled in at Oktoberfest’s Hofbrau Haus, surrounded by crowds of young people, nearly all from New Zealand and Australia.

“We were able to find lodgings here after so many Americans cancelled their travel plans,” one young couple told us. “Let’s toast America!”

We’d all raised our litre mugs, singing along with a brass band that pounded out tune after tune. We gnawed on salted radishes and pretzels, both as big as our heads. We toasted every English-speaking nation on Earth that we could remember, including Belize, Guyana and Seychelles, countries that may have gone unmentioned if I hadn’t a personal Peace Corps knowledge of them.

Ken and I listened appreciatively as our new friends poured out sympathy for the States, and accepted their gracious good wishes for a safe return home. We left Oktoberfest carefree, flushed with lager and love.

Then the United States initiated a bombing mission over Afghanistan. We heard that American citizens abroad should register at American embassies. Rumors swirled that tourists may be threatened by terrorists.

“Should we try to return home early?” I’d asked.

“I don’t want to leave Germany until we’ve seen Andechs,” Ken replied. “We’ll be all right.”

Ken described Andechs Abbey, an hour south of Munich, as a Benedictine monastery housed in a castle dating from the twelfth century. Its brewery produces lagers with an alcohol percentage nearly as strong as fortified sherries.

“We’ll sit in the beer garden, share a basket of rye bread and monastery cheese, sip a beer and contemplate the frescoes and stuccoes. We’ll really relax at Andechs,” he insisted.

Ken drove along the eastern shore of Lake Ammersee, eventually pointing out a castle looming on a hill, “There’s Andechs!”  

It had been a destination for pilgrims for over five hundred years. Now, as we headed up the hill that frosty morning, I felt as if we, too, were on a pilgrimage.

The beer proved as delicious and heady as Ken had promised. After lunch, we’d toured the ground floor of the church. We sat in the Chapel of Sorrow, praying for the United States, for Washington DC, and for peace. I especially prayed for a sense of serenity. The fear seeped away, leaving me calmer than I’d been since the morning of September 11.

As we left, I’d picked up a brochure that quoted the Andechs’ Abbot, Dr. Johannes Eckert, on the purpose of the monastery.

One phrase hit a chord, and I’d read it aloud to Ken back then. This morning I looked up on the Internet. Eckert hoped pilgrims would “relish the present and the moments which go by so quickly, yet indeed not forget that which went on before.”

“Never forget that,” Ken had said nearly two decades earlier. “I’ve been telling you that since I met you.”

Of course, he had. And last night, without a word, he’d reminded me again not to squander my energy on worry. Savoring the last sip of my coffee, I resolved to go about the next few weeks, or even months, if need be, without panic over COVID-19.

If my husband could ride across the universe to reassure me in my dreams that just as I’d weathered other disasters, I’d survive this one as well, the least I can do is avoid wearing an old and worried face.

I have a bottle of German beer in the back of my fridge. I plan to toast Ken’s memory with it tonight. I’ll even nibble a pretzel. 

Party on Your Feet

 I just got word that my story about last Christmas, "Sock It To Me," was a finalist in the Ageless Authors' short/short contest. Here's my story about that day just five months ago that now feels like five years.

 Sock It To Me!

I’d felt uneasy about spending last Christmas day alone. I’d had company the past three holidays, seeing movies with a gentleman friend who didn’t celebrate Christmas. But the relationship recently had unraveled. My friends all had made other plans with their own families.

For years after my husband had died, I’d spent Christmas watching videos, but I hadn’t felt alone. My three cats and two dogs made sure I’d had something nearby, warm and breathing, for comfort. But this year I’d be home alone. My son and daughter-in-law, both who had to work the holiday, would not be coming by for me until evening. Then we’d enjoy a late supper at a nearby Italian restaurant, one of the few places that stayed open on Christmas.

This past Christmas morning had such a relaxed feel to it, though, that the uneasiness slipped away. I’d already taken care of all the holiday preparations. No more need to address greeting cards or wrap gifts. Even my shoe box-sized apartment, for once, didn’t need any tidying. I’d already dusted, vacuumed, mopped the minuscule kitchen and bathroom. I had closets that could use cleaning, but I sure didn’t feel like taking that on as a Christmas chore.

Switching on my electric tea kettle, I’d realized I’d not left my customary “to do” list adjacent to it on the kitchen counter. I grinned, as I steeped my cinnamon teabag. It sure looked as if I were really taking a day off.

So now the day spread out before me like a true tabula rasa, a complete blank slate. How could I use the time? I considered my options as I inhaled the sweet scent of my tea. Reading? My eyes fell on the stand next to my rocking chair, where I’d stacked three books, each with a bookmark dangling from somewhere in the middle. Binge watching a TV series I’d longed to see? I glanced at my TV and at a stack of DVDs neatly piled in the side cabinet. Still undecided, I set the teacup in my sink and wandered into my bedroom.

After I made my bed I started back towards my rocker. I stopped in the doorway, staring at the three-drawer plastic storage bin where I stowed my undies and socks. Of course! It’s the absolute perfect day to organize my sock drawer.
 “When I was growing up, all I ever got for my birthday was underwear or socks. Same for Chanukah. Just socks.” 

My former gentleman friend had gazed at me, expecting sympathy. Instead, I shook my head. “Just socks? And you’re complaining?”

He’d looked bewildered.

“You’re whining to the wrong woman,” I’d said. “I’d have been delighted, enchanted, entranced with socks for Christmas.”

He looked doubtful. What’s more, he didn’t show any interest in continuing the conversation. Gradually, we had drifted apart. But I remembered that exchange this past Christmas, when I had a day to myself, home alone.

As a girl, I had exactly three pair of bobby socks to pair with my saddle oxfords. To my parent’s dismay I always seemed to have a couple of socks soaking in soapy water in the bathroom sink. Even though I’d sneak some of Mama’s bleach, I couldn’t any longer pretend my socks were truly white. They’d become dingy with age. In those penny-pinching days, I still needed to wear them even though they’d become threadbare.

When I was about twelve, as I’d sat listening to the minister’s Christmas sermon, I remember concluding that the only thing holier than this holiday probably were the socks on my feet. I’d set off for church that morning wearing the least seedy of the ratty socks. I’d tried not to show disappointment when we’d unwrapped our gifts at daybreak. Though I was grateful that I got a badly needed jacket, I’d hoped that the smaller box contained socks. It didn’t. Mama had crocheted me a new cap.

Now, all these years later, in my retirement years I can treat myself to new socks whenever I feel the whim. I can afford to indulge my fancy. A longtime collector of crystal unicorns, now I collect unicorn socks. I’ve accumulated striped socks, checkered socks, and socks that commemorate nearly every holiday except Labor Day.

“Make sure you’ve got a party on your feet,” my yoga teacher once had said, encouraging the class to shed our shoes when we exercised, but not to go barefoot. “So long as you’ve got something cheerful covering your toes,” she insisted, “karma will take care of ensuring that the cheer spreads upwards toward your brain. You’ll be party animals.” We’d giggled but we obeyed. I took her literally, so I party hearty. I’ve got owl, frog, pig and kitten socks.

So, I dumped the contents of my sock drawer on my bed. I winnowed out several singletons, tossing them in a pile of other clothing items I’d been readying for a trip to a charity shop.

“We can use single socks for craft projects,” one of the volunteers there had assured me.

I sorted the socks into categories. I had two pair for St. Patrick’s Day and two for Valentine’s, but for December I had an even dozen, including ice-skating cats, Santa, snowflakes, twinkling stars, angels. And one pair for Chanukah, blue with menorahs. Finally, I repacked the drawer and slid it back into its frame.

It hasn’t been so bad spending this Christmas home alone, I concluded. I’d taken care of a task that I’d been putting off and still had time to read for a couple of hours. Plus, I’d realized that I now had enough socks to last me the rest of my life.

Coincidentally, last year Chanukah had overlapped with Christmas. Accordingly, when I dressed for my holiday supper that evening, I chose the blue menorah pair to put on. I’ve got a party on my feet, I thought, in memory of my former gentleman friend who had wailed, “Just socks.”

 XXX

Ageless Authors continues to solicit submissions for an upcoming anthology on coping with crisis. Its website can be found here: https://www.agelessauthors.com/

 

 

Dream a Little Dream

During this pandemic, I'm not alone in experiencing vivid dreams. I've been reading several research studies on how dreams have altered because of the quarantines. I've included a link at the bottom of this post if you'd like to follow up on dreams. In the meantime, here's one I had just in the nick of time...right before the quarantine.

 

Mount Baldy

By Terri Elders

“Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.” --Jonathan Swift

In hindsight I should have guessed right away why Grandpa Louie popped up in my dream. Decades had passed since I’d thought much about him. Then, this past Thanksgiving, my younger brother began to reminisce about our years as tots and teens, back in the ‘40s and ‘50s.

“Dad never had any time for me, but Grandpa Louie always did,” he said. “He let me follow him around from the time I could toddle. He taught me a lot of things in those days. He always seemed protective.”

I’d never thought of Grandpa as protective…generous, maybe. He always handed a shiny quarter to each of us kids when we’d visit him. But protective? Not to my knowledge. What I remembered most about him was how I envied his claim to be eagle-eyed.

“I can see a fly light on Mount Baldy,” he’d brag, every time I helped him pick walnuts in his grove outside Ontario, CA. He’d shade his eyes with his calloused palm and peer twenty miles northward at the San Gabriel Mountain’s snow-covered caps. At 11, I’d hover by his side, aquiver with envy. Because of severe astigmatism and myopia, I could barely even make out Mount Baldy. I’d doubted that I even could spot a fly if one landed on my foot. 

 “You get the lower branches,” he’d say, handing me a basket, “and I’ll climb the ladder to knock down nuts from the higher ones.” Then we’d spend the rest of the morning harvesting the walnuts that Grandma Gertie would later candy or stir into her dreamily ambrosial banana bread. 

Now here he suddenly was, again in his walnut grove, me by his side. I’d awakened, puzzled. I had no need to be picking walnuts these days. I doubted they even grew near Ontario anymore. I live in a senior-living complex close to the ocean and far from the San Gabriel Mountains. In fact, despite the more smog free air of the 21^st century, I realized, it had been ages since I’d seen Mount Baldy. 

I recalled that just recently I’d heard the San Gabriel mountains sported snow down to the 2000-foot level. As I’d recently driven eastward on the freeway on a clear late winter afternoon, I should have been able to spy them in the distance. Maybe even single out Mount Baldy. But I hadn’t. I wondered why. Just a year ago I’d seen them clearly.

Could Grandpa be sending me a message related to this? I made an appointment with my optometrist. I hadn’t visited him for over three years.

“When did you have your cataract surgery?” he asked.

“Thirteen years ago,” I answered.

“Well, cataract lenses don’t wear out, but they can become clouded. I’m scheduling you to see an ophthalmologist to determine if you need your lenses cleared. I’ll also write you a new glasses prescription. You’re also are showing some signs of age-related macular degeneration.”

He peered down at his notes from my previous visit.

“Are you still taking the lutein supplement I recommended to slow down the progression of age-related damage to your eyes?”

I nodded. 

“Well, keep on taking those. And eat plenty of dark green veggies, carrots and walnuts. They’re all rich in the antioxidants you need to help your vision. So is green tea.”

 I remembered how Grandpa Louie carefully tended his vegetable garden and how Grandma Gertie was always cooking up what she called “a mess of greens” and grating carrots for salad after he’d bring in a basket of fresh produce. And all the walnuts. No wonder he had such great eyesight. 

I visited the ophthalmologist who confirmed that my left eye lens cover had become cloudy. She cleared it up in fewer than five minutes with painless laser treatment. I soon got new prescription glasses as well. Once again, I can distinguish aqua from turquoise. I now can spot those tiny cracks in the pavement that I’d tripped over this past year. 

A few weeks later, Grandpa Louie showed up in my dreams once again. This time we were yanking carrots from his vegetable patch. Grandpa didn’t brag one bit, but he turned toward me , handed me a gnarled carrot and winked. I’d winked back. Across the decades and dimensions, we ratified a mission accomplished.

How had Grandpa Louie had the foresight seventy years ago to be growing and ingesting all the essential ingredients that lead to great vision health? Now I finally had an insight. Unlike me, who’d been born with astigmatism and myopia, he’d likely been blessed with great vision from the start. But additionally, he’d also been a visionary. 

What’s more, just as my little brother had claimed at Thanksgiving, protective. Now, as I sip a cup green tea, I realize that unlike Grandpa Louie, I likely never will glimpse that elusive fly circling Mount Baldy. But at least now I can enjoy the panorama of the San Gabriel Mountains, still draped in snow.

https://theconversation.com/what-dreams-may-come-why-youre-having-more-vivid-dreams-during-the-pandemic-137387

What the Dickens Should We Do?

I could have used the first week of quarantine in these days of the coronavirus pandemic to finish writing several pieces I've wanted to write for weeks, months, years. I even have titles for some of them: "Mt. Baldy," "Pillow Talks," and "Fun Zone." But I didn't. Instead, I turned my entire daily routine topsy-turvy, taking long naps and then staying up to read in the wee small hours.

I could have read the books my book groups will tackle when our distancing precaution is over, Following Atticus and The Pioneers. But I didn't. Instead I sat entranced with Malcolm Gladwell's Talking to Strangers and the most current issues of The New Yorker.

I could have, would have, should have...but I've given up recriminations. Instead I'm reflecting on the things I did do in this new year, which somebody has mentioned seemed to have been scripted by Stephen King. 

I saw my physician in January for my annual checkup and an optometrist and ophthalmologist in February, got a laser treatment to clear the lens cap on my left eye and a new prescription for glasses. All before health care professionals weren't conscripted for attending to the urgently ill and vision centers weren't shuttered.

I shopped for essential toiletries before the mad toilet paper stampede made going to any open stores a bona fide health hazard.

I got to promote an anthology with one of my pieces, "An Arrested Development," at the fabled West Hollywood "Book Soup" which I'd always longed to explore.

I took in another stellar play, "Fun Home," at the Chance Theater with my son and daughter-in-law, followed by "Murder Runs in the Family" at my local Westminster Community Theater and a final performance of "The Great Gatsby" at the minuscule Maverick Theater, before entertainment venues were all closed.

I got to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, sipping excellent Bushmill's Irish whiskey safely alone with a close friend, when we made the wise decision to forego any crowds.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.  --Charles Dickens

 

Sometimes We've Earned the Right to be Trite

A few weeks ago I got a message from a Facebook friend, a gentleman who grieved the loss of his wife, who had died a couple of years earlier. They'd been married for 51 years. In addition he now felt doubly heartbroken because a new love of just a couple of months had yet to make a decision to become fully committed to him. He alluded to "Magnificent Obsession," a 1929 novel by Lloyd C. Douglas, later made into a blockbuster film.

Unfortunately, all the wishing in the world will not bring our deceased loved ones back into our lives

Expecting new ones to replicate the devotion of lifelong loves might be overoptimistic. I felt so sorry for this man. In an effort to offer compassion, I replied that sometimes when we're grieving it often pays to take the focus off ourselves and our needs. I mentioned that I used to share with my patients who felt overwhelmed that they might begin their days by thinking of three things that they can do to help them keep putting one foot ahead of the other. First, find a way to help somebody else. Second, create something: draw, write, cook, make a list of future travel plans.

I didn't share that this past Christmas, when I felt betrayed and sad, I cleaned a sock drawer. Just creating order out of chaos cheered me up. Third, I'd written, seek something that's personally comforting. For me, that might be reading one of the books I've yet to get around to and discovering why it was considered a classic.

In return I received an emotional note saying he wasn't asking for a professional consultation and that the advice I'd given him was trite. He interpreted my last suggestion to mean that I'd treat myself to a piece of chocolate. He said his whole life was constructed on the "paying it forward" concept introduced in "Magnificent Obsession." So my mild nudge that he make a mindful plan now daily was "ultra trite."

OK. But right now we're undergoing a worldwide pandemic and the elderly have been increasingly isolated. We are not going back soon to the Good Old Days. Young people don't want to visit grandparents for fear of infecting them. Those of us in my apartment complex have been forbidden to congregate anywhere together, so all of our common areas, our pool, spa, recreation room, computer room and gym have been locked. Even our front gate is locked, making it difficult for potential visitors since we'd have to stand outside in the rain and click them in.

Now it's St. Patrick's Day. I won't be going to an Irish pub today, after all. All my plans for the next few weeks have, as yours, been put on hold. I'm reminding myself that even if we don't have access to movies, libraries, museums or coffee shops, we still may find some comforts. I'd like to share these with those who are feeling like it's hard to find any brightness in their day. Lavender candles and camomile tea still sound good to me. So does watching a couple of good movies.

But before I succumb to a chorus of "Poor me, poor us," I remind myself to count my blessings. After all my years overseas in developing countries, it's clear to me what they are right now. I have groceries in my cupboards. Some people I've lived with could only afford to buy a cup of rice at a time. I have a warm bed with blankets. Yesterday, right here in California, the world's fifth largest economy, I drove by homeless people trying to snuggle in their sodden blankets under an eave. I've received some St. Patrick Day cards in the mail and some by email, including an Irish jig in a Jacquie Lawson card. When I lived in Seychelles I was still receiving Christmas cards on Valentine's Day.

So, no, the jig isn't quite up yet. I'm holding on to hope.

Spirit Brighteners: https://www.verywellmind.com/how-to-cope-with-loneliness-during-coronavirus-4799661 

Why Elderly Feel Marginalized:https://www.apa.org/monitor/2019/05/ce-corner-isolation

How Other Countries Cope with Lockdown: https://www.bbc.co.uk/newsround/51904789

A Leap, a Spring and a Shamrock

Leap Year Weekend in Healdsburg

A week ago I realized two months had already passed since I sat mesmerized watching a sunny Rose Parade. I'd been sitting in an outdoor patio cafe in Healdsburg Leap Year Day, marveling at how the year was speeding by.

Somebody at the table mentioned that maybe it just seemed to go by faster as we grow older because time seems so endless when we're young. Now I'm wondering if that's true. I know that the summers of my teens seemed to drift on slowly, catching the bus to Hermosa Beach, standing in a wet bathing suit in the parking lot behind The Lighthouse, falling in love with cool jazz. And waiting for school to begin again in September.

Another friend tried to provide an explanation of this phenomenon, claiming that when we're young we have so much more to look forward to, getting through each grade toward graduation, choosing college or the military or a job that might lead to a career. Looking forward to marriage, raising a family.

So here it is, the eve of Spring Forward morning, when we return to another eight months of Daylight Savings Time, with longer afternoons and early evenings. What do I have to look forward to now? Well, after all it's March. So there's March Madness, the first day of spring, and my favorite, St. Patrick's Day, with limericks and the wearing of the green.

But wait...first I've got Friday the 13th. I'm celebrating that this year with a real turn back of the clock, back to the Roaring 20s.The storefront Maverick Theater in Fullerton brought my favorite F. Scott Fitzgerald novel its stage and I'm itching to see it. Maybe I can't do the Charleston any more, but I can still don some beads and swill a bit of gin.

So who says older folks have nothing to look forward to?

          

Dang! We Did It Anyway!

How do you get to Book Soup? Practice!

Since I first heard of its existence back in 1975, I've wanted to get to Book Soup. Located on the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood, it's been the hip home of the literati for nearly half a century. So when I got a message from Larry Upshaw, the founder of Ageless Authors, that he planned a reading and signing of Dang! I Wish I Hadn't Done That! for four Southern California contributors and one of the Ageless Authors judges, I agreed to show up. For me it felt like making it to Carnegie Hall.

I've done dozens of readings in the past fifteen years since I've been writing about my life's adventures, but never one at a venue quite so chic with a group of authors quite so enthusiastic.

The area where we read our stories.

Larry Upshaw, from Dallas, introduced us as enormously talented writers. Not a single one of us raised a hand to object to this lofty praise. Larry already had staged readings in Dallas and Albuquerque, so by now he knew how to get the authors to look cheerful.

Larry begins the intros...Geoffrey at right.

My fellow contributors at this reading included Geoffrey Graves of Laguna, Brenda Mutchnick of Beverly Hills, and Gered Beeby of Encinitas.  Candice Kelsey of Los Angeles, a literature teacher at a private girls high school in the vicinity and an Ageless Authors judge, also read several poems from a collection she's about to publish. 

Book Soup, with its floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with some of the most memorable books ever written, proved distracting. I'd have loved to have bought more books there...saw so many I want to read. But I already have stacks piled up in the corners of my tiny apartment, so steeled myself to resist. But I know I'll return to Book Soup.

The next afternoon the same group assembled at Barnes & Noble, Irvine Spectrum. Again, we enjoyed chatting with the audience members who came up for autographs...but it wasn't quite like Carnegie Hall, er....Book Soup! Dang! I'm glad we did this.

L-R, Gered, Terri, Candice, Brenda, Larry

Thanks to Myrna Beeby, Gered's wife, for taking the photos of the authors.

You can buy this book here:

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=dang%2C+i+wish+i+hadn%27t+done+that&crid=1XOOCETNSHC5N&sprefix=Dang%21+I+Wish+I+%2Caps%2C222&ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_14