Early in 1945, Doris Day had one of her biggest hits while a band singer with Les Brown, “My Dreams are Getting Better all the Time.” For three weeks, it topped the charts. At seven, my musical taste buds were still forming, but I remember liking the way she negotiated the dips and swells of the melody. As to the lyrics, I wouldn’t say my dreams are getting better, but they’re definitely being put to better use.
Before the pandemic, my dreams enabled me to do amazing things that waking life didn’t permit, such as soaring through the sky, or dancing well. These days, my dreams allow me to do perfectly normal things which are no longer wise, like gathering with friends, going to restaurants, and giving hugs. I’m about to explore three recent nocturnal excursions, so if recitals of the dreams of others sets your teeth on edge, now is the time to bail.
Dream one: short and simple enough – I’m at the airport to meet my father – or he’s there to meet me. In reality, Dad’s been gone twenty-nine years. We throw our arms around each other and hug a long, tight, satisfying hug. That’s all, but how it lingers to warm me.
Dream two: Lois, for undisclosed reasons, is treating me to dinner. Being Lois, she is careful to wear a mask, as am I, in the back seat. It’s dark, but streetlights ahead are shutting off, one after another. I suggest this means that the posh restaurant we seek will be closed, but Lois is determined to press on. We arrive to find it open. She goes off to the ladies’ room, and I decide to order steak and lima beans. The dream concludes with me holding aloft a tall stemmed glass of ice cold Bombay Sapphire gin with a twist of lemon. I’m trying to find us an outside table even though those inside are socially distanced.
My dreams aren’t usually that cautious and responsible, so I’m sure the spirit of Lois costumed and choreographed this one. I awoke and thought what a tasty repast that would have been. Then it occurred to me that I had all the ingredients to replicate it right here. So I did, with delicious results, after which, I toasted Lois with a long stemmed glass of gin.
Dream three; Now we come to one of the long, three volume Victorian novel type which John so abhorred. In the dream, my friend George is posting pictures and raving about the meatballs his wife Karen has just made. I decide to drop in and see if I can have some. I enter their house which has somehow been transported to Chicago. George is so engrossed with the meatballs he doesn’t notice me. I grab a fork, break off a morsel and find it heavenly (which is odd because in reality I can take them or leave them).
Just then, there is a loud banging at the door. George opens it and finds three young thugs threatening to rob him. I yell out, “Is there a gun in the house?” George yells back, “Yes, in the coffee table drawer.” I find the gun which, instead of grey steel, is an attractive dark blue plastic. I know it’s real though, and loaded. I step to the door and brandish the weapon which completely cows the robbers. If they try to hurt George, I’m prepared to shoot (though I’ll aim at their legs). We call the police, and the larcenous lads call their mother. She gets there first and pleads the case that they’re really sweeties if we knew them. I’m having none of it, so she starts singing “As Time Goes By.” I see through this diversionary tactic, but it’s such a nice song that I sing along with her.
We finish our duet (which I must say was well received) and I demand their names. She tells me hers is Kingsmill!! I’m aghast at the prospect I might be related to these felons. To convince me that I am, they send for a nearly blind woman who, with tears streaming down her face, begs me to remember her. To my utter consternation, I do. She is a long lost, elderly aunt. As the dream ends, I am mortified that relatives of mine have tried to rob Karen and George.
Not exactly quality time, but at least I got to spend it with friends. Maybe tonight I’ll get to dream I’m at the movies.
Me Now 