Dreaming

It’s amazing the memories our mind manages to mend together when we dream. The other night I dreamed of my grandparent’s old farm house in southwestern Oklahoma. In 1899, when my grandfather was 10 years old, he rode in a horse-drawn wagon with his parents across the prairie from Fort Smith, Arkansas, to the newly opened Oklahoma Indian territory. They claimed a 320 acre section of farmland, then began building a house where my grandparents would eventually raise 9 children, my mother being the youngest.

When I was a boy, I would often spend at least 2 weeks out of each year staying with my grandparents, usually in the summer, occasionally in the winter. By that time, the house was weathered and worn. Water was drawn from the well each morning. Many of the vegetables we ate came from the carefully cultivated garden east of the house. The 2-seat outhouse was located about 50 feet to the west, a challenge to get to in stormy weather, especially when you were in a hurry. A propane tank was filled about once a month that fueled the kitchen’s gas stove, also serving to heat water for the portable tin bath-tub.

Around 1962.  I'm 5 years old sitting in a chair on the front porch.

In my dream it was winter-time. Huddled under several home-made quilts in the dusty upstairs bedroom, I could see snow drifting through the cracked wall slats. Rain buckets caught water that dripped through the roof that hadn’t been shingled in ages. Somehow I could see my grand-mother entering the front door before sunrise, carrying 2 logs from the woodpile out on the front porch. Lifting the lid of the stove, she stirred the glowing ashes from the night before and placed the logs on the simmering fire. Soon, a growing warmth brought me out of my blankets and down to a freshly cooked breakfast of eggs, bacon, and buttered biscuits.

They had no lock on the front door; didn’t need one. A cellar served as protection from tornadoes and as a stock room for the vegetables that my grandmother had ‘canned’ during the fall. My grandfather tended to a couple dozen cows and would grow cotton or wheat, depending on market conditions. Electricity came to the house in the 1950’s and lighted the evening lamp by which my grandmother would read her Bible while in her rocking chair. They never had a TV. A small radio reported the daily news.

So much has changed in the past 60 years. Back then, written contracts were not needed. A firm handshake or spoken word was enough to seal a deal. If anyone would have thought to suggest that men could get pregnant, or play in women’s sports, or marry other men, they would have been sent to the ‘funny farm’ or mental institution. Today they sometimes get sent to Congress. Back then, we believed in the rule of law and respected our political leaders. Today, we have kangaroo courts that convict political opponents of bogus criminal charges.

I suppose it’s nice to have dreams that can momentarily carry us back to simpler, more wholesome days. I often imagine times when my body was still strong, when I could climb a mountain or swim a river, or enjoy fellowship with my Filipino friends, or interact with loved ones from long ago. But dreams are not real; Heaven is. Apart from family and friends, there is nothing in this world that I will miss or regret leaving behind. Well, except maybe ice cream and cheese-cake. Surely, those will be in Heaven! At least I can dream that they will be.