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Thursday
March 18, 2010 Since 1922 |
Jimbo is puzzled by dream
By Jim Finley
Contributor Published October 23, 2009 Under normal circumstances – which are my favorite kind – I wouldn’t write about a dream, although I’m sure you really don’t mind. (“Just keep ‘em coming, Jimbo!”)
But I’m going to do it, anyway, because I’m a person who usually doesn’t dream that much. Indeed, since roughly 1944, I’ve had only 89 dreams. (I counted them.)
One of those involved the St. Louis Cardinals’ Stan “The Man” Musial, a boyhood hero, and the other featured yummy 1950s picture show actress Kim Novak, a boyhood fantasy.
While most people dream on a regular basis, or so I’m led to believe, I just lie there thinking about stuff. I am, and have been forever, a horrible sleeper. So I toss and turn until my body finally cries out in pain and exhaustion, “Go to sleep, you twit!”
Before I finally fall asleep, which is usually sometime in the early morning hours, my mind doesn’t stop. Sometimes I write columns in my head, right there in the dark, right there under the covers.
Of course, by the time I get ready to put those words on paper, I don’t remember but maybe a third of the content I “mentally wrote” in bed. But even Stan The Man only got a base hit a third of the time, so I’m in good company.
On other occasions, in my delusional state, I think about what I would advise Commander Obama on certain matters if the President would but call, which I’m sure he’ll do any day now. (“What should I do in Afghanistan, Jimbo?” Listen to Gen. McChrystal, for goodness sake!)
Too, if I’ve had a day in which, say, I cheated on my diet or didn’t do my treadmill, I feel guilty at nighttime and punish myself by thinking I’ll soon be forced to move to Massachusetts. Aaaarrrghhh!
But the other night, I actually had a dream. It seemed so real, as weird as it was. I, being a deep thinker, am still searching for a meaning.
In my dream, it was the middle of the night – like early, early morning – and I walked outside. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.
Between our house and the one occupied by Gayle and Tom Boisture, Wife Margie was standing there watching TV. Not only that, she had placed the TV, which was hooked to an extension cord running from the garage, onto a wheelbarrow.
(NON-EDITOR’S NOTE: I should have known this was a dream, since we don’t own a wheelbarrow.)
Wife Margie, it turned out, was watching a movie, there between the houses. I don’t know which one, but it did not star Susan Sarandon or George Clooney, and the music was definitely not provided by the Dixie Chicks or Madonna. Yuck!
Just as I began to investigate, a limousine drove up and out popped old 1940s actor Billy De Wolfe, who actually croaked in 1974 and was never a favorite of mine, anyway. I looked at my watch. It was 3:14 a.m. o’clock.
De Wolfe, wearing a pinstriped suit, a black hat, white gloves, and spats, joined Wife Margie to watch the movie. (Young people, feel free to look up the word “spats.”)
Soon, others walking zombie-like from around the neighborhood began to gather with Wife Margie and DeWolfe to watch the movie on the TV sitting in a wheelbarrow.
What are you doing and where did you get the wheelbarrow? I asked my bride of 49 years and counting.
“Why, hon, I’m watching TV and …”
Before I could get the complete answer, I woke up, sweat pouring off my noggin.
Guess I’ll never know the “why” of it all, but I’m glad we didn’t wake up the Boistures.
Jim Finley is a retired managing editor for The Baytown Sun.
Contributor Published October 23, 2009 Under normal circumstances – which are my favorite kind – I wouldn’t write about a dream, although I’m sure you really don’t mind. (“Just keep ‘em coming, Jimbo!”)
But I’m going to do it, anyway, because I’m a person who usually doesn’t dream that much. Indeed, since roughly 1944, I’ve had only 89 dreams. (I counted them.)
One of those involved the St. Louis Cardinals’ Stan “The Man” Musial, a boyhood hero, and the other featured yummy 1950s picture show actress Kim Novak, a boyhood fantasy.
While most people dream on a regular basis, or so I’m led to believe, I just lie there thinking about stuff. I am, and have been forever, a horrible sleeper. So I toss and turn until my body finally cries out in pain and exhaustion, “Go to sleep, you twit!”
Before I finally fall asleep, which is usually sometime in the early morning hours, my mind doesn’t stop. Sometimes I write columns in my head, right there in the dark, right there under the covers.
Of course, by the time I get ready to put those words on paper, I don’t remember but maybe a third of the content I “mentally wrote” in bed. But even Stan The Man only got a base hit a third of the time, so I’m in good company.
On other occasions, in my delusional state, I think about what I would advise Commander Obama on certain matters if the President would but call, which I’m sure he’ll do any day now. (“What should I do in Afghanistan, Jimbo?” Listen to Gen. McChrystal, for goodness sake!)
Too, if I’ve had a day in which, say, I cheated on my diet or didn’t do my treadmill, I feel guilty at nighttime and punish myself by thinking I’ll soon be forced to move to Massachusetts. Aaaarrrghhh!
But the other night, I actually had a dream. It seemed so real, as weird as it was. I, being a deep thinker, am still searching for a meaning.
In my dream, it was the middle of the night – like early, early morning – and I walked outside. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.
Between our house and the one occupied by Gayle and Tom Boisture, Wife Margie was standing there watching TV. Not only that, she had placed the TV, which was hooked to an extension cord running from the garage, onto a wheelbarrow.
(NON-EDITOR’S NOTE: I should have known this was a dream, since we don’t own a wheelbarrow.)
Wife Margie, it turned out, was watching a movie, there between the houses. I don’t know which one, but it did not star Susan Sarandon or George Clooney, and the music was definitely not provided by the Dixie Chicks or Madonna. Yuck!
Just as I began to investigate, a limousine drove up and out popped old 1940s actor Billy De Wolfe, who actually croaked in 1974 and was never a favorite of mine, anyway. I looked at my watch. It was 3:14 a.m. o’clock.
De Wolfe, wearing a pinstriped suit, a black hat, white gloves, and spats, joined Wife Margie to watch the movie. (Young people, feel free to look up the word “spats.”)
Soon, others walking zombie-like from around the neighborhood began to gather with Wife Margie and DeWolfe to watch the movie on the TV sitting in a wheelbarrow.
What are you doing and where did you get the wheelbarrow? I asked my bride of 49 years and counting.
“Why, hon, I’m watching TV and …”
Before I could get the complete answer, I woke up, sweat pouring off my noggin.
Guess I’ll never know the “why” of it all, but I’m glad we didn’t wake up the Boistures.
Jim Finley is a retired managing editor for The Baytown Sun.