Friday, April 19, 2013


I'm not sure where I am at first.  I see old windows with the white paint on them chipping off.  I see springs and wood.  I suddenly hear a table saw screaming as it rips through wood.  That wonderful aroma of wood and electricity fills the air.  I'm now in a basement.  In my old house in Berwyn Heights.  I can see the sink near the washing machine.

I hear my father's voice.  My view changes and I see my hands guiding this wood along the spinning blade.  I don't know what's being said, but I know I'm being coached.  He knows I'm not fond of using this machine.  I think he's trying to desensitize me to it.  I'm afraid I'll lose digits.

I hear a woman's voice.  A thick and syrupy voice.  Sultry.  Julie London is singing "My Funny Valentine"
(No connection there, right!?).  It's perfect.

I see a man.  He's wearing a flannel jacket.  Blue, grey, and black.  I am now using a jigsaw.  I'm much more comfortable using that.  Still, I find it hard to follow my father's pencil guides around the curves.  He takes over.  I'm relieved.  I look at the large pad of graph paper.  Numbers, more pencil lines and notes written in his familiar hand.  I drill holes for two large springs.  I see sawdust on his thick eyebrows.

I'm making a bead loom.  Dad's design.

I still hear his voice.  I know it's him.  I just can't understand [or remember] what he's saying.  I feel him close to me.  I sense that he approves of what I'm doing.  He's proud of me, but I know he's happy with himself, too... because he's passing his skills onto me.  I feel silly.  I have nowhere near the amount of skill that he does.

We are in my living room.  He's trying to be patient with me.  His impatience makes me nervous - and impatient.  I let him take over.  I know I can do what he wants, but I also know he's proud and just humor him.  I sense he knows that, but is still okay with it.

I am now showing him how to put on the warp threads.  He tells me I'm using the wrong kind of thread.  He wants me to use sewing thread.  I secretly switch it to strong nylon beading thread.  Not sure why, but I sense that he tested me.  He's happy that I chose the other thread. [??]

I tell him that we forgot to sand the wood.  He is laughing.  I'm not.  Not sure what that means.  I'm staining the wood.  I ask him where the polyurethane is. I'm impatient to use my loom but the poly must dry.  I again smell wood, but now it's mixed with polyurethane, coffee and cigarettes.

Throughout the dream, I felt a sense of comfort;  like he was there to make sure I not only did as I was supposed to do, but I felt that I knew he really wasn't there.  Alive.  He was "visiting" me.  I saw a few smiles.  It's just he and I.

I woke up and felt like he was just inches from me.  It was one of those dreams where I felt like it was real and still continuing as I wiped the last vestiges of sleep away.  It's haunting me in a way.  I still feel a presence.  Like he could just walk into my kitchen.  It's not a bad feeling at all.  A tinge of unease, but more than anything, it's reassuring. Comforting.  Kind of like he simply popped in to see how I was and to let me know that he's always around.  But most of all, I felt comforted; by him.

I'm glad.

A lot of evil is wreaking havoc in the world, lately. Pain,  horror, and fear. Suffering and death.  Anger and disagreements. Threats of war. The world is a nervous place right now. Maybe it's his way of comforting me.  I am a firm believer in dreams, and I believe some occur for a reason.  I always loved being with him while he was wood-working in the basement.  I can still recall being not yet three and holding glue, nails and brads for him as he worked.  I never felt safer.  He was always my hero.

"So... how ya doin, Squirt?"

I'm okay, Dad.  Really.  Thanks for checking in on me.

Think I'll go put on some Willie Nelson.


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