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A Boomer’s Journal

By Tom Anselm

With all due respect to a certain civil rights leader, last night I had a dream.

Now, it was nothing near his noble thoughts. I have crazy dreams, such that when the lovely Jill and I greet each other in the morning with ‘hello, luv…how’d ya sleep?” I usually can respond with ‘fine, but crazy dreams.”

My latest foray into nighttime nuttiness consisted of being in a car with a nephew-in-law and a guy I didn’t know. We are headed to a hand-ball game at a location in the city. We encounter a rolling gun battle, whereby the rear window is shot out of our car. Joe, the nephew, is sitting in the front and laughing hysterically about how this was a lousy way to go to the gym. I am hunkered down on the floor of the back seat.

So we get to the gym, and of course I have not brought any tennis shoes or shorts. Nor have I ever played handball. But the funniest part of this is that it is my birthday, and there is a party for me at our house. Which I was not at. Which is not built yet. But which has been redecorated by my wife and daughters with two kitchens and multiple lights like you would see at an athletic field. Yeah, inside the home. Very bright, as you would expect.

So I keep telling these guys at the gym that I have no idea why I am there, don’t play handball, and need to get home for that party at my nonexistent house. You know, the one that has been lit for Friday Night Football.

Next, I am driving the wrong way on a highway, but Jill, who apparently picked me up, in spite of her need to be at the invisible house preparing for the party, assures me that it is okay. Which is hilarious in its own right, since she has been known to ‘gently’ guide me during our real-life adventures on the roads with always-valid co-pilot advice.

I do admit that I am sometimes, okay, many times, in need of her assistance. I blame it on her, telling her she is distracting me, she is so pretty. Sometimes that even works. But maybe the next car we get should have drivers-ed controls. I will merely work the wheel and she will handle the rest.

And so we continue heading the wrong way, which seems to be working out okay, and soon arrive safely at an underground facility for indigent bakers. Not sure just exactly what an indigent baker is. Or why there exists an underground facility for them. But there we were, nonetheless.

We are greeted by an appropriately-numbered 13 bakers who act as if they knew we were coming, who outfit us with bakers whites, give us a huge loaf of bread, of which, me being hungry and it being my birthday, I take a huge bite. They ask if we minded being interviewed and recorded for their website. Of course not, say us, I guess because the wifey and I have been on auditions together in real-life for some commercials, neither of which we booked, but it sure was fun. (Oh, and did you know I can say I am dating a model, since she has done a few Edward Jones gigs? I am so lucky.)

During the interview, we are asked to sing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” which we do. Then we are escorted through a door, and, lo and behold, it is a surprise party for me.   My birthday, remember. So as crazy as this dream is, it still is following a theme, something that cannot be said for most of my dreams. However, at the party there are people whom I do not know, many whom I do know, and more than a few people who have gone on to their just rewards.

And as happens many times, my best friend Terry from childhood, who fits into the latter category above, is there, playing his guitar. Terry shows up a lot in my nighttime follies. Maybe he needs my prayers, or something. Everyone there is having a great time, eating from that giant loaf of bread we got at the indigent bakers home.

The imaginary house looks great, with two kitchens and stadium lighting galore. All the grandkids are there, but they all look older, like teenagers. And of course, they are all gorgeous and handsome. (What else did you expect, right?)

Jill gives me a hug and kiss, and I wake up.

Not a bad way to start the new day, I suppose. Reality begins with the memory of a hug and kiss from a cute gal. Oh, and here she is. “Hello luv… how’d ya sleep?”

“Crazy dreams,” says I. And away we go.

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