Years ago, about 30 i think, i had a strange dream. Well, not to say i haven't had strange dreams before, or since, but this one has stayed with my all this time. In other words, it has followed me through time, dogging my steps and gently pushing it's way into the front of my mind at odd times. I have often wondered where the dream came from, and why it has stayed with my so long.
Here is the dream.
I was an indian, an old man, the storyteller of the village. In my mind and soul i stored and carried the stories of our beginnings and life so they could be passed down to the younger ones. So that we would always know where we came from and who we were. I protected the history of our people, and told the glory of our ancestors.
I was dressed in robes of leather and fur, sitting on the ground by the center fire. Around the fire were many people, old and young, male and female. I was telling the story of the river turtle and how he carried our first ancestor across the raging water.
I was also the old woman sitting next to me, and the young people listening to my words. I was each person there. I was the story teller, and i was every listener. I was the story telling itself.
My voice said words, and my voices sighed in amazement and hissed in fear.
I was the sparks of the fire, exploding and shooting to the stars.
I could smell the hot sap as it bubbled out of the burning wood.
I could smell the sweat of the me next to me. Over and over again. I could feel each heartbeat and every breath taken.
I could see out of a hundred eyes.
It was all joy, beauty and grace. Gentleness and sorrow.
Then i woke up.
The dream never changes in my memory, it is always the same.
Today it came to mind as i was watching a fat robin playing tug-a-war with a large worm.
Somehow, that little battle for survival brought that dream forward in my mind.
How strange is that?
"Hey ma! I'm home." yelled the teenage boy as he came slamming through the back door.
'She must be sitting around gossiping with her old lady friends again', he thought as he opened the refrigerator door, searching for something to eat.
He stomped up the stairs to his bedroom, opened the door.
"Phew!" 'It smells bad in here, she hasn't cleaned my room! My buds will think i live like a pig!'
Just then he spotted a photo pinned to his pillow.
A photo of his mom, lottery ticket in hand, holding up a sign that read,
Oops is a word used often here in this house.
And everytime someone says it, little dog Daisy runs to see if some cheese has hit the floor.
You see, the Old Guy has got her spoiled. Whenever he is getting cheese for himself, he drops little bits on
the floor and says "OOPS" to let her know she can come get it.
Then theres the "oops" followed by a bad word usually uttered by me as i trip and stumble over my oxy hose.
Or the hose gets looped over a cupboard door knob and yanks the door open, or loops around the Old Guys feet as he goes by (giggle).
Theres those times when i'm coming out of the bathroom and the hose gets stuck under the door, which of course means the door won't open or close and i'm standing there getting really riled trying to yank it out, when all i have to do is gently slide it out. Oops.
Some days the "oops" come one after another. And there are days when not one happens. I like those days.
Those quiet "no oops" days.
But, "oops" can often turn into laughs and giggles too. Like the Preperation H on the toothbrush. Or the pants on backwards or wrong side out, or forgetting to rinse the conditioner out of my hair and trying to figure out why it feels so weird.
It's been quite a while since i have been blogging....too long. And it's been too long since i've played at Jenny's.
And, wouldn't you know, for my first time back in forever, for Saturday Centus this week we can use only 25 words, minus the prompt which is..... 'the lottery ticket'.
So, here goes.
Where is it? The lottery ticket is gone! She sat, head in hands, watching the boy float tiny paper boats in the lake. Paper boats? TINY PAPER BOATS!