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Monday, June 20, 2011

Dream Roll: Dad and My Typewriter

First I dreamt I was falling in love--or lust, at least--with a long-time male friend of mine. As with all dreams about falling in love, what was good about it is that moment right as you are falling, right on the cusp, when you both adore everything about each other. My hair looked pretty--there were some soft blonde curls on the front right side--and we both knew it. He was touching them.

Then the dream river flowed to Delia, my friend and colleague in the magazine world for decades. She was the Nutrition, Diet + Fitness editor at Good Housekeeping for 20+ years. She was giving me some work assignments, about furniture, I think. I told her I'd be happy to take on more. She had one that was a supermarket sorbet comparison.

Then I was in Stop & Shop with Dad. I had my blue manual typewriter with me. I was showing Dad a new Nabisco product--High-Protein Oreos. They were in little six-packs, and the package copy said something about how they'd keep your energy up longer, and would be good for older people. I was efficiently typing up some notes, as Dad watched.

He was well enough to walk, because we moved on to another aisle, and then I realized I had left my typewriter behind. We retraced our steps but couldn't find it. I was worried someone had stolen it.

Later, I got it back at the Lost and Found in another building. First they showed me one blue typewriter that wasn't mine, and then they brought mine out. I was so grateful for the honesty of the person who returned it.

But by then, Dad was gone.

Real Life
In truth, my parents gave me a blue typewriter in a black case for high school graduation, and Dad has always encouraged me as a writer. [See, I still use present tense, can't let go of it.] Using, losing and finding my typewriter with him is surely a symbol of him still urging me on. And, while unearthing treasures in my office yesterday, I uncovered another little manual typewriter. [H. has quite a collection.]

I'm writing this in my office. H. likes sitting on my white wicker couch here and reading The New York Times in the morning.

What are you writing about?
A dream.
What was the dream about?
I don't want to tell you.
Tell me. Come on, I always tell you. What, am I going to read about it on your blog?
It was about falling in love with someone. But I'm not saying who it was.
Who was it? Come on, tell me, I tell you about every dumb crush.
No, I don't want to tell you. But don't worry, it's not a mutual friend of ours, or anything like that. But what I will tell you is that any time I have a dream about falling in love, it's about that feeling when you adore everything about each other. Like I had some pretty blonde curls, and he was touching them.
That sounds exactly like someone I know.

What I take from this dream, and my urge to get up and write about it, is that somehow Dad came through to me on Father's Day.

And that maybe this moment suspended in time was a good opportunity to tell H. what I remember, and miss, about falling in love. About that window you look through and see happiness, when you can't believe how lucky you are, that he wants to kiss you and you want to kiss him, and you can't see any faults, only a lovable, boyish man--a writer, like you!--in a worn leather jacket and round glasses, who walks you to the subway after one of your first dates and watches to be sure the sliding doors close snugly before he heads upstairs to catch his train to Brooklyn.

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