At Mom’s, Twelve Hours of Sleep, a Home Ec Dream

Twelve hours of sleep and I reallllly don’t think I am depressed! It is a return to my youth. So, I went to bed at 9:30 and woke up at 10:30 this morning….but I did spend an hour last night re-reading my journal. Some of my life is darned interesting and the biggest part is incredibly commonplace. Foy told me once that if I were mugged and beaten nearly senseless, I would just see it as a really good story. I like that, actually.IMG_5056.JPG  

Ok, so while sleeping twelve lovely hours, I had a revealing dream. It was once again about Home Ec. Before I continue, I have to ask myself, do history majors dream of Waterloo, math majors dream of fractals in chaos, German IMG_5068.JPG majors dream of the dative case, or agriculture majors dream of beneficial nematodes? Actually, there was an article in my favorite newspaper, the San Antonio Express about a tomato tiff between Mexico and Florida. So, maybe that is a nightmare for Ag folks. I dream of Home Ec a lot. Last night I dreamed I was in some kind of professional development learning about goals, essential elements, and the like for curriculum writing. I was sitting next to a glass door with brilliant light shining in….ok I end sentences with prepositions. Shoot me. So, in the dream, I am talking to someone about these goals for our curriculum. I told her, a real do-gooder, that I hated goals. End of dream. For the record, I used to be a card-carryin’ maniac about goals and essential elements. I could whip ‘em out quicker than you can say John Henry. Guess, that’s behind me.


Diego de Diablo update: Yesterday Len insisted Diego be brought in and spend some warm time in his crate because it was below freezing. I agreed that we don’t want the little man to be cold. BUT, when released to the outdoors, he went bonkers. In minutes, he chewed up two freeze covers, a plant, the trash bag that he pulled from the garbage can, and a cardboard box. Lesson learned: Diego needs lots of activity. Usually about 30 minutes of serious fetch, wears him down for about an hour. We can’t move into a condo.


I am thinking about East Wood Country Club, free fall thinkin’, and my- life-long fear of becoming a Moonie. In order of thinking:East Wood Country Club was a ‘night club’ on the east side of San Antonio popular among my group in the 1960s. It was actually opened in the mid 50s. In recent reading I have learned that it was on the ‘Chittlin’ Circuit.’ Here is what I remember—we thought we were wiiiiiiiiild for being there. We never encountered one bit of trouble—even though we were squirrely white-not-old-enough-to drink kids. We loved to dance there. The guitarist, Curley Mays played the guitar with his toes among other things. Miss Wiggles was a contortionist dancer who danced until she was in her 60s. We just loved that place. If there were racial problems elsewhere, all was well at Eastwood. My parents would have beaten (not really) and berated me if they had known I was there. ‘Don’t tell’ was my motto.

I have written before about ‘free-fall thinking.’ This is the term I have coined that describes what goes on in my head prior to drifting off to sleep or during a massage, moments before I fall into a drooling, snoring sleep. This kind of IMG_4872.JPG thinking has no theme or structure. For example, I know that I am fully aware or thinking of Grandma’s kitchen—the pock marked tin counter tops, the stinky sulphur laden water from the faucet, and the step down from the dining room and another from the kitchen to another room that probably was a porch once. It had the goodies in it. Lots of windows which accounted for the potted plants, a wringer washing machine and this awesome glass-doored cabinet where the treasures were kept. That was my thinking anyway. It held the bounty Grandmas didn’t want broken….at least one or maybe 20 glass chicken boxes. I can’t see one without thinkin’ of my Grandma’s kitchen. She also had an Electrolux gas operated refrigerator. Ok, I have gone off my track. With free-fall thinkin’ you get this whole idea as a whosh, then you are onto something totally different, maybe trying on hats in England, or whosh again and you are in Grandma’s bedroom where over the bed hung a large photograph of Baby Ellen, the Dead Baby, which is how the tribe of girl cousins used to refer to her. Frankly, I love free fall thinkin’ it is never unpleasant and very fluid and seamless. Very nice. It is not dreaming; it is series of unrelated, unedited movie clips from my past.

On the fear of becoming a Moonie. I don’t know exactly where it started but I have always resisted formal religion…being Episcopalian doesn’t count…just one notch below formal Catholicism. Anyway, maybe it is because I am so uncomfortable around zealots…religious or political. I have this predisposition to be full-throttle about things….so I lie to myself about being moderate. Jackie says I am a zealot moderate, I think she calls it. So, it stands to reason that if I became religious or political, I would be obnoxious about it and probably not too well-informed but certainly dramatic. And certainly an outfit and hat would be required. So, I have spent some time edging away from such things. One time we invited our brand new, youngish priest and his wife over for a visit. In fact, I think we were amongst the first parishners to open our home to them. I was an ass. Or is it, I am an ass? At any rate, I had maybe too many glasses of wine and in giving them my perspective on church and religion, I told them I always feared being a Moonie. OMG, I can remember the expression on their faces. It was that closed expression look. Len and I chuckle over this somewhat uncomfortably now. I never could get in the groove with that priest and he was verrrrrrry nice. Like St. Augustine, I think ?, I continue to walk around with a hole in my heart longing for ‘It’ but fearing a life in airports as a Moonie.


One Response to “At Mom’s, Twelve Hours of Sleep, a Home Ec Dream”

  1. Once again Susan, you remind, rewind, reconnect, and altogether entertain me with bits and pieces of my own life that I otherwise would never have known we shared…the rest of us who feel the same are grateful that you have this wonderful gift to get the words around the thoughts and launch them into our space so we get to fly with you. So grateful to know you! Happy New Year!

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