It's All About the Journey

Today is your future. Live in the moment!

Get Dressed!

Sitting here watching the morning news, I have noticed (and not for the first time), the women wear dresses, men wear suits. In my own old fashioned way, let me voice my own opinion here (freedom of speech, right?).

If you want to be treated equally, then dress equally and look professional. I see 3 men in suits and a woman with an attractive neckline, off the shoulder dress and formed right around her body.

So much for respect and the #MeToo movement!

The Dreamer

I was reading about dreams in the wee hours of the morning, sleep escaping through the lashes of my lids, as the cold wind brought the change of weather.

I did go into a lucid thought of Dad saying something as he was working on perhaps a repair, in a brief spot of dream, but it did not stay, I was awake!

Some dreams are nonsense, others create a deja vu later. Some, if you are fortunate (or not), are clairvoyant, and some prophetic.

Mine are a little clairvoyant, I think. Probably because they involve the dear departed to me: a grandmother, a grandfather I never met (and did not resemble any of his pictures, by the way), a friend here and there, that have come at odd times.

At any rate, it appears half the night was dreamless, as I awaited All Souls’ Day!

The Dress

Nowhere to wear it, so Olive started a wardrobe for her guest. She had bought it at a Fetish Lane concert, ironically held on the grounds of the old farm, once owned by a relative generations and a few cousins ago.

She wears it well. (“Rhoda would be proud,” thought Olive.)

Olive and the Mannequin

She saw her, but not right away. Inside the old antique shop, dusty and worn, her wig in a permanent askew, dressed in an old brown 70s dress, and a combo of nylon, polyester, and 100% itch. Her face was turned away, she was looking toward the back door, ashamed to be placed out of view, and adorned so plain.

Olive was browsing. The shop had hidden treasures everywhere, quite like most shops do! The mannequins in dresses of yesteryear and quite the scene, a mix of 60 and 40, with a skip over the 50s. Trunks that had been filled with blankets and dolls, sweaters and an old book or two…

The proprietor was a round tiny woman with a crooked little smile whose eyes were magnified by her spectacles. She sat behind the counter, reserved but also full of information quietly pried from her by the curious customer.

“Of course,” She exclaimed, “there are those who would say there are things attached, but I haven’t found any!” Leaving us, of course, to our imagination to be our comfort and guide.

Hats and finery with nets and bows, aprons and coats, and the well gloves palm.

And there she was, hidden almost from view, when Olive found her, among the hat stands and brick-a-brac. Touching her face, Olive traced the upturned nose with her finger, and declared her.

She waited three weeks to collect her, not quite sure what her companion would say, what he would think…was she truly crazy? Could a grown old woman have a mannequin…a doll, without being dubbed “totally blinking crazy?”

“I think she’s fun,” Athena, her friend and cohort in this crime of little girl friendship.

They took her apart and carried her out, piece by piece.

Her first glimpse of the future, not in the dust of the shop, and the stare at the door that awaited her demise, but in a new home, waiting for the joy she could give, for isn’t that every child’s dream? And the doll that can offer it?

Tables I Have Known

Tables.  Surfaces for clutter, surfaces for dining.  Surfaces for laying today’s mail, to receive immediate attention.  Problematic, everything appears on the kitchen table, begging it’s space someplace else.

My parent’s kitchen table was always tidy.  It still is.  Layered with the plastic table cloth, plastic place mats, a wooden trivet in the shape of an apple, with a lamp in the middle on top, there is their table.  You have to move the lamp if there is company, or you can’t see around it to visit while eating.  But Mom can’t see well (maculaer degeneration), so that is it’s spot.

My old friend, Reenee, who has been gone probably a number of years, she had ended up in a nursing home after a severe stroke, her table was also her desk.  She and Tommy lived in a tiny apartment in the same building, along with Honey, her sister (who would, incidentally, be the same age as my mother, if she were still alive today–when Reenee ended up in the nursing home, Honey had to go to a home and she died because she could not be with her sister anymore).  Anyway, their kitchen table held their mail, immediate attention was on top of the tablecloth, those that she didn’t want to lose but may need attention, went beneath the tablecloth.  They too had a reading light above the table, so Tommy could see.  Tommy had huge thick eyeglasses.  I think he had been a truck driver in his younger days.  He retired, took off his pants, and never bothered again, sitting around in his boxers, day in and day out, sometimes at the table, sometimes in his chair, one of those that automatically lifted you up, he was a rather heavy individual.  Anyway, Reenee’s table was a hub, that’s for sure!  We drank tea, we drank coffee, Stella, her Greek friend (Reenee was Greek too, by the way) would bring baklava.

My table.  My table I swore would always be ready for company.  Tablecloth.  For awhile it was wipeable plastic or vinyl, but later I upgraded myself to cloth.  I do love cloth on a table, it gives it a clean, finished look.

But oh, that flat surface…it BEGS for the company of:  mail.  The daily mail.  Bills.  The bills that need paying, the bills that should be in the “IN” box on the desk.  They all are on the kitchen (or dining) table.  Waiting because they are a priority and need to be taken care of.  The pad with the grocery list, accompanied by the store flyer, and a pen.  The napkin basket, appropriately.  But can you locate the salt shaker?  Little pieces from some “thing” that the farmer is working on, a part needing to be replaced.  I solved that issue with a little plastic basket, which has since been relocated away from the table, and the little pieces come back.  I keep moving them.

We cleared the table this weekend, we removed the cloth tablecloth, we had company and we played cards!  A large country breakfast of bacon, blueberry waffles and eggs was the attention of this surface while we all enjoyed company and the perfect breakfast. Later, me and the grandson played cards, getting ready for the after the picnic festivities with the farmer and the son.  Getting up this morning, I see a bag of chips, a book of “interesting facts” from Aunt Esther, and a couple other things that will need to be cleared before breakfast.

So, I guess you could say that my kitchen table is not only for dining, but is the hub of activity around here!  I can only hope that my new kitchen and my new table next door will be better acclimated to having a nice bowl of fruit as it’s centerpiece, instead of the daily mail.  We will see.

The Dream

I dreamt my parents were getting re-married.  My father arrived in a colonial blue golf shirt that had been hanging up in the closet too long.  Incredibly dusty, as I beat out the dust I wondered if he would be dressed up enough. I myself had a dress, my sister had a “better dress” one that resembled that of a flower girl, creamy white satin with curlique’s of white on the bodice and a little pink satin flower….I was supposed to be the maid of honor and my sister’s comment was that we should trade dresses.  She could not be maid of honor as she was still nursing a child.  Somehow there was a cake involved.  I kept having to go here and go there, and not just a run around town, it was MILES away everything that was needed.  We finally all were there and ready to take our places.

That’s all I’ve got.  I don’t remember my mother there, any other siblings, but there was other people there.

Why do we dream what we do?  Honestly, I’d requested, before I went to sleep, that I’d have a revelation as to where I left my Jabra earpiece, my answer to not having a smart phone planted next to my brain.  I guess that dream is lost in the spaces of my mind.  Well, at least, the Jabra is.

Anyway, I needed to record this dream, in hopes that I’d recover more of it.  And there you have it.