Memoirs of a Geezer!
Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!
This Episode: Dreams -- A Strange and Wondrous Landscape...
Dreams! Strange and mystical. Sometimes haunting. Odd plunges into deep wells of unconsciousness and fantasy. In this time of advanced age (or Geezerhood, if you like) in which I now find myself, dreams have become more and more bizarre. I remember them upon waking, something that was not always the case in my younger years. Although frequent inebriation and the "delicate condition" of early mornings may have impeded memory in those decades past!
Now in this autumnal time of life, my dreams have become even more peculiar, some downright ridiculous. Allow me, please, to elucidate, via the following example...
I'm driving along in a 1940s-vintage Jaguar Sports Roadster. It has huge rounded fenders and a split windscreen, slanted on either side and divided by a grooved strip of chromed metal. With me are two other chaps. We're all dressed as English barristers, black broadcloth jackets and waistcoats, a gold watch chain draped along the midsection, black and grey striped trousers, a derby or homburg-style hat perched on each of our heads.
We're traveling at considerable speed. I realize something's wrong as I cannot see the roadway properly; I'm seated too low and can view only the top portions of trees, roofs of parked vehicles as we whizz past. I'm concerned we'll strike something. Suddenly, one of the companion barristers says in a voice raised in anger, "This is disgraceful; here we are traversing a pleasant lane and one spies a hideous barn! Just look at that! Stop! Let me out!"
He exits the roadster, crosses the road and knocks at the wood paneled door of a red-brick building devoid of windows. A man answers and my companion, the barrister, announces with indignation, "This is appalling!" He enters and slams the door.
The third barrister remains mute. Now having parked at the side of the road, soon I'm walking along and carrying an antique wooden kitchen chair. It has a rounded seat with curved back supports. Quite soon I enter a tailor's shop. I state to the three tailors in the shop, in my best faux English accent, "Gentlemen. I cannot see properly through the windscreen of my roadster!" I show them the chair.
One of the tailors looks up and says, "Let me just measure your trousers, sir." I comply, and the tailor fusses with the cuffs of my English barrister trousers, using a flat piece of marking chalk. "There we are, sir, right as rain," the tailor proclaims proudly.
"I shall return, then," I say in reply. "I must advise you, though, I share these trousers with another gentleman. What are your hours of operation?"
"We're open Monday through Friday, sir," the tailor replies.
"But today is Saturday," I say.
"Monday through Friday, sir. Trousers done in just a tick. Right as rain, sir. Next, please!"
I depart, carrying with me the antique kitchen chair. I cross the lane to the red-brick building into which my companion barrister disappeared earlier. I knock loudly on the wood paneled door. Suddenly I wake, possibly roused by the imagined loud knocking!
Begging your indulgence, I wish to describe another odd dream, this one a recurring adventure! In the dream, my dear and lifelong friend... we'll call him Patrick... telephones to insist that we play a round of golf. I dislike golf, but I agree to meet him at a links location that remains unidentifiable in the
recurring dream. Patrick wisely suggests -- to avoid an enormous crush of golf enthusiasts, comprising a great many groups of foursomes all wearing plus fours -- that we play backwards, teeing off from the greens and then putting on the tees. I agree, as it all seems quite sensible in the dream.
We select our drivers and tee off from the first green into a throng of oncoming golfers. As one of a foursome approaches us, he announces angrily to Patrick, "Sir, this is not on. One simply cannot tee off from a green into a group of unprotected players!"
"Be quiet and move aside," admonishes Patrick, "you're obscuring the landing point of my superb tee shot!"
"Scoundrel... man must be mad!" says the offended golfer vehemently, but softly, so as not to provoke violence, or so I suppose within the dream. (I often wonder if other dreamers muse or suppose inside a dream, locked in deep slumber!)
At some point in our round of golf, we find ourselves in the basement of a home on the periphery of the 18th fairway. We've sought and been granted permission to play our golf balls from the aforementioned basement, through a window the homeowner has graciously opened. We both select mashie niblicks. (Inappropriate, perhaps, for "pitching" but nonetheless our clubs of choice.) We both then successfully hit our balls onto a tee, where we proceed to putt for par. (We use a beer can for putting. It's an empty Blatz can, and we use it repeatedly throughout!)
After completing the round of golf, we decide to avail ourselves of potables at the club's "19th Hole" clubhouse. We both order "905" Beer, and quaff hungrily, terribly thirsty after our vigorous round of 18 holes. The bartender says, "Good day for it, eh? You the chaps playing backwards? Terribly clever! Fifty-cents each, please!" I awake as the beverage host smacks our bottles of chilled "905" beer soundly upon the bar!
One day I'll discuss the dream with Patrick. Perhaps at some point in our past we actually played a round of backwards golf. Although I can't imagine why, as I dislike golf.
I know I dreamed as a youth, though I do not recall any dream of great significance. I engaged in somnambulism as well. My dear departed mother once told me I scratched on her bedroom door, and when she opened it at approximately 3:00 in the morning, I spat a mouthful of water upon her face and nightdress. Later in life, my brother told me mother worried about my penchant for strong drink and its possible effect upon erratic deportment! Alas, the foibles and follies of youth... and dreams unremembered!
Mustn't grumble. My dreams in "geezerhood" are quite entertaining, as I think about and relate them to my nearest and dearest. Though some are skeptical about the veracity of my English Barrister dream and its authentic and well-remembered dialogue (though needn't be!), I suppose I hope for some sort of interpretation. I cannot imagine what either of the aforementioned dreams might be construed to mean, if indeed they'd betray any sense of meaning to competent dream interpreters. (I knew a potato peeler -- known as "Menominee Mary,"working at a saloon my family frequented, who was a remarkably talented interpreter of dreams. She's long dead, but once told my father that he'd soon be taking a trip, after he'd related to her a frightening dream, something having to do with a freight train racing through his bedroom. Verily, and soon afterward he actually went on a trip! Although I should add, on balance, my father was constantly taking trips...)
In conclusion, I must say I enjoy dreams --when having them, and, doubly, when actually remembering them -- particularly those in which I'm flying without the benefit of aircraft. I don't enjoy those in which I'm being pursued by gunmen or commies or unruly gangs or scaly creatures with big teeth! Happily the latter do not usually dominate my dreamscape. Well, I'm off now for my afternoon slumber. Getting on in years, you know. Pleasant dreams!
[ Post Script: A Simple Quiz -- (Answer carefully; there may be more than one correct answer!) Which of the following do you believe is a true, recurring dream: 1.) I wake myself by asking someone to pass something... e.g. "Please pass the sausages!?" 2.) I receive a telephone call from Barbara Walters (I call her "Babsy"... we're jolly good chums!) to announce that I've been named the most fascinating person of the year! 3.) I hit ("spike," "kill") volleyballs in my sleep, arm and hand actually flailing wildly...! (Poor Sweetheart!) ]
(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude: The perpetrator of this Blog extends enormous thanks to his great friends, Pat and Joey, Pat for inspiring this "edition," focused on "Dreams," and Joey for appreciating and encouraging the shared senses of humor and the ridiculous that P.T. and the perpetrator have enjoyed for more years than we'd care to admit. Alternatively, sincere apologies to both for incriminating you in this latest bit of foolishness!)
Now in this autumnal time of life, my dreams have become even more peculiar, some downright ridiculous. Allow me, please, to elucidate, via the following example...
 |
| To illustrate the standard dress of a typical English barrister... Rumpole of the Bailey! |
I'm driving along in a 1940s-vintage Jaguar Sports Roadster. It has huge rounded fenders and a split windscreen, slanted on either side and divided by a grooved strip of chromed metal. With me are two other chaps. We're all dressed as English barristers, black broadcloth jackets and waistcoats, a gold watch chain draped along the midsection, black and grey striped trousers, a derby or homburg-style hat perched on each of our heads.
 |
| The Tailor! |
We're traveling at considerable speed. I realize something's wrong as I cannot see the roadway properly; I'm seated too low and can view only the top portions of trees, roofs of parked vehicles as we whizz past. I'm concerned we'll strike something. Suddenly, one of the companion barristers says in a voice raised in anger, "This is disgraceful; here we are traversing a pleasant lane and one spies a hideous barn! Just look at that! Stop! Let me out!"
 |
| Ancient kitchen chair... Pictured in tailor shop! |
He exits the roadster, crosses the road and knocks at the wood paneled door of a red-brick building devoid of windows. A man answers and my companion, the barrister, announces with indignation, "This is appalling!" He enters and slams the door.
The third barrister remains mute. Now having parked at the side of the road, soon I'm walking along and carrying an antique wooden kitchen chair. It has a rounded seat with curved back supports. Quite soon I enter a tailor's shop. I state to the three tailors in the shop, in my best faux English accent, "Gentlemen. I cannot see properly through the windscreen of my roadster!" I show them the chair.
One of the tailors looks up and says, "Let me just measure your trousers, sir." I comply, and the tailor fusses with the cuffs of my English barrister trousers, using a flat piece of marking chalk. "There we are, sir, right as rain," the tailor proclaims proudly.
 |
| Illustrative image of a man wearing Striped Trousers! |
"We're open Monday through Friday, sir," the tailor replies.
"But today is Saturday," I say.
"Monday through Friday, sir. Trousers done in just a tick. Right as rain, sir. Next, please!"
I depart, carrying with me the antique kitchen chair. I cross the lane to the red-brick building into which my companion barrister disappeared earlier. I knock loudly on the wood paneled door. Suddenly I wake, possibly roused by the imagined loud knocking!
Begging your indulgence, I wish to describe another odd dream, this one a recurring adventure! In the dream, my dear and lifelong friend... we'll call him Patrick... telephones to insist that we play a round of golf. I dislike golf, but I agree to meet him at a links location that remains unidentifiable in the
 |
| This image is intended to depict "Patrick" as he and I prepare to play backwards golf!... also, "Plus Fours" golf apparel! (The bird is probably extraneous...) |
We select our drivers and tee off from the first green into a throng of oncoming golfers. As one of a foursome approaches us, he announces angrily to Patrick, "Sir, this is not on. One simply cannot tee off from a green into a group of unprotected players!"
"Be quiet and move aside," admonishes Patrick, "you're obscuring the landing point of my superb tee shot!"
"Scoundrel... man must be mad!" says the offended golfer vehemently, but softly, so as not to provoke violence, or so I suppose within the dream. (I often wonder if other dreamers muse or suppose inside a dream, locked in deep slumber!)
At some point in our round of golf, we find ourselves in the basement of a home on the periphery of the 18th fairway. We've sought and been granted permission to play our golf balls from the aforementioned basement, through a window the homeowner has graciously opened. We both select mashie niblicks. (Inappropriate, perhaps, for "pitching" but nonetheless our clubs of choice.) We both then successfully hit our balls onto a tee, where we proceed to putt for par. (We use a beer can for putting. It's an empty Blatz can, and we use it repeatedly throughout!)
 |
| Image of a Blatz Beer Can into which we aim our Putts! |
After completing the round of golf, we decide to avail ourselves of potables at the club's "19th Hole" clubhouse. We both order "905" Beer, and quaff hungrily, terribly thirsty after our vigorous round of 18 holes. The bartender says, "Good day for it, eh? You the chaps playing backwards? Terribly clever! Fifty-cents each, please!" I awake as the beverage host smacks our bottles of chilled "905" beer soundly upon the bar!
One day I'll discuss the dream with Patrick. Perhaps at some point in our past we actually played a round of backwards golf. Although I can't imagine why, as I dislike golf.
 |
| Above, below and to the right are images of dreams. I reason these might require explanatory copy! |
In conclusion, I must say I enjoy dreams --when having them, and, doubly, when actually remembering them -- particularly those in which I'm flying without the benefit of aircraft. I don't enjoy those in which I'm being pursued by gunmen or commies or unruly gangs or scaly creatures with big teeth! Happily the latter do not usually dominate my dreamscape. Well, I'm off now for my afternoon slumber. Getting on in years, you know. Pleasant dreams!
[ Post Script: A Simple Quiz -- (Answer carefully; there may be more than one correct answer!) Which of the following do you believe is a true, recurring dream: 1.) I wake myself by asking someone to pass something... e.g. "Please pass the sausages!?" 2.) I receive a telephone call from Barbara Walters (I call her "Babsy"... we're jolly good chums!) to announce that I've been named the most fascinating person of the year! 3.) I hit ("spike," "kill") volleyballs in my sleep, arm and hand actually flailing wildly...! (Poor Sweetheart!) ]
(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude: The perpetrator of this Blog extends enormous thanks to his great friends, Pat and Joey, Pat for inspiring this "edition," focused on "Dreams," and Joey for appreciating and encouraging the shared senses of humor and the ridiculous that P.T. and the perpetrator have enjoyed for more years than we'd care to admit. Alternatively, sincere apologies to both for incriminating you in this latest bit of foolishness!)
Humbly Submitted 01-01-15 -- Joel K.
