My father has started appearing in my dreams lately. That hasn’t happened for a long time, and is a sure sign that I’m upset about something and looking for safety and security. When Daddy is in a dream, he’s usually watching from the sidelines; he doesn’t take action. I guess even my subconscious knows that he’s been gone a long time. But
that longing to feel safe and taken care of will never go away, however old I may get.
I just realized today, Father’s Day, that Daddy died 40 years ago. Forty years! And I’m nearly the age that he was when he died of a sudden heart attack, chopping wood in the back yard at the farm. It was hard to be young in a crazy time without his presence. Sometimes I wonder how much he would have liked the adult I became. I’m pretty sure he would have disapproved of many of the choices I made. But I am sure he would never have stopped loving me.
I want to remember the good things, the tiny jewel-like memories that still remain: Daddy taking me to the department store (McClellan’s) and buying the doll I had wanted for so long, a small one in a green dress; Daddy standing with a group of uncles and cousins at a relative’s wake (we called it “receiving friends”) and laughing at Uncle Fatty’s jokes; Daddy coming in from the fields for lunch and drinking sweetened iced tea from a giant glass, which I still have. His khaki work clothes, how hard he had to scrub his hands with Lava soap to get the dirt and grease off from working in the fields or at Uncle Preston’s garage. Watching our black and white TV in the dark while he smoked a cigarette.
I miss him every day. I’m sending out my love to him, and to all the fathers and uncles and brothers and grandpas who are father figures for children everywhere. Happy Father’s Day!
I’m finally feeling better after being sick for a week. I never get the flu–always get that flu shot! I rarely get a cold. But this really laid me low.
The worst of it was the fever. I ran a fever of 101 degrees or more for three days. And I had the same dream all three nights, just picking up at a different place each night.
I dreamed I was designing a website for someone (which is not at all in my skill set, but in the dreams I could.) The site was vividly colorful. At some point I realized that whatever I did to the website was being echoed in the real world. I remember thinking this was pretty cool, watching colors and images cascade out from the screen into reality.
Then on the third night of this dream I made a terrible mistake, and everyone in the world suddenly had reptilian scales instead of skin, in a sort of purple-and-black python pattern. And people turned and looked at me with snake faces and black, snake eyes. I freaked out and woke up.
Someone at work said this was a responsibility dream. Apparently I’m afraid of screwing up in a really big way and having it affect other people. I am getting ready to start a new job, and I am both excited and worried about starting a new endeavor.
I guess the good news is, whatever I do will spill out into the real world, but it’s unlikely I will turn people into purple-and-black snakeskin monsters! Thank goodness my powers are limited 🙂
Whenever I am especially worried, lonely or agitated, my father appears in my dreams. This seems strange to me because he died when I was only 22 years old. But he is still a powerful figure, and someone I look to for comfort or help.
Last night I had an odd dream about measurement. I was being assessed by someone unknown, and I could see the computer monitor, and charts and graphs that were being generated as I answered questions. Then Daddy appeared and the computer went away.
Why do our parents matter so much? Is it that they form us when we are tiny lumps of potential? Is it the genes that flow among us? It’s hard to say. Freudians would say the mother and father shape us beyond hope or repair. I like to think we’re “Born That Way,” as Lady Gaga says, and nurture can influence nature but can’t change it. No one really knows at this point.
Whatever the reason, my parents continue to haunt my dreams and shape my responses. The other day I talked to my sister Glenda. It was a lovely day, both here and at her home in Ohio, and Glenda said, “It’s a blue October sky, like Mother used to say.” I remembered her saying that. No doubt Glenda’s children and grandchildren observe the blue October sky, not knowing where the expression came from.
The depth of memory, feeling and compassion in the river of life is beyond measure. Sometimes it upsets me when my parents visit me; other times it’s a comfort. At any rate, I can’t and won’t forget. Memory never dies.