An Easter pyre

Hammer and Nike cardboard box

The act of some vandals very early yesterday morning propelled my life in an unexpected direction.  For me, the incident started with a call from my son, Charles.

His voice was hushed and anxious, his call unusual; he had driven off to school only ten minutes previously. Apparently, he pulled over to make this call. However, Charles was slow getting to the point. I interrupted him, “Are you alright? Has there been an accident?” “No, no, Mom, I’m fine.  The thing is, it looks like someone burnt the bench at the foot of the driveway.”  Our house is situated at the top of a quarter mile drive up a mountainside.  For close to seven years, we have had a bench at the bottom because it helps visitors identify our property.  The notion that the bench had been burnt seemed ridiculous.  We live in a tiny, friendly, rural town.  To my knowledge, we have not made enemies with anyone.  I told Charles I was going to call the police.  My husband was traveling; I was at the helm.  Charles suggested that I first go down the drive and take a look. I told him to have a good day and I would take care of things.

I decided to drive down because my legs were a little unsteady.  My first view of the bench was over the hood of the car. It looked a lot like a jack o’lantern with its teeth missing. The vandals had knocked out many of the vertical pieces that were aligned in order to form the back.  As I got closer, I saw they had created a fire using those pieces of wood.    Whether deliberate or accidental, I couldn’t say, but the fire had eaten away a hole in the seat of the bench, for all the world, it looked like a toilet!  When I got out of the car, I could see a few objects strewn near by: a beer bottle, an iced tea can (extra large), a Twizzlers wrapper and cardboard from a Nike box.  There, under the burnt remnant of the bench were the words, “Just do it.”

As a result of what the responding officer suggests were carousing boys, our bench was no longer viable for anything but scrap wood. I went down with my hammer and knocked what remained apart.  I neatly packed it into a box to take to the dump.  The box was much lighter than I anticipated when I hoisted it into the car to take to the dump. After I left the dump, I secured some mulch and a hanging plant. I could feel my stamina dwindling as this project progressed. Never-the-less, I persisted in completing the task at hand. I raked out the coal and ashes from the fire., then spread three bags of mulch to hide the offending remnants of some nameless boys’ mischief. I pounded a six-foot shepherd’s crook into the ground and hung a plant -- which I then wired to the post. I took one last look, gathered the bags from the mulch, watered the plant, and then threw the rake in the car before heading back up the quarter mile to my house.  I used the sixty seconds it took to get to the top to say a prayer for those misguided boys, for their families, and then, one last plea for the safety of my loved ones and our property.  

It occurred to me how much went into righting what had been done wrong. Once inside, I was depleted for the remainder of the day.  All of this was the result of one thoughtless strike of a single match. 

Adventures in Dreamland

Somnambulism is a fairly common disorder; I have been a sleepwalker since I was a child.  When I first read “Heidi,” by Johanna Spyri, it was easy to relate with Heidi’s nighttime wanderings.  Her sleepwalking behavior emerged during a stressful period in her life; she was tricked into moving to Frankfurt, away from her beloved, though misanthropic, Grandfather in the Alps. I believe I read the book at least eight times. I saw Shirley Temple’s version of the story on the big screen at least twice. With such ample a stage for preparation, why should I have been surprised to get up in the morning and find the dishwasher emptied?  My husband and son denied any knowledge of how the task was accomplished.  It shouldn’t have startled me to be awakened by the sound of the garage door opening one night, I was standing barefoot with my hand on the garage door opener when I woke up.  Heidi’s nocturnal wanderings had, at first, the quality of a ghost  playing havoc in the house.  The night time visitations were less a ghost more a housekeeper in mine.  Morning after morning, I would wake up tired, and find some task accomplished. Laundry folded. Kitchen cabinets wiped down.  Shelves reorganized. Imagine my surprise the night I woke up standing on the counter!  I tried to ignore the mounting evidence that I had resumed my childhood pattern of roaming.  The bruises and bumps from walking full tilt into walls and doors should have been enough.  However, I finally knew I needed some redirection in January.  I woke up, in darkness, feeling like I was tipping over, or the earth was trying to make me slide off its surface.  I stumbled, and in doing so, woke up.  I was standing outside in our back field, in boots and pyjamas.  I found the dog’s leash in my hand, but the dog was not attached. I called and called for him, my breath coming out in puffs of white condensation in the cold, night air. I was fearful that I had let him out, off leash and that I wouldn’t be able to find him. He is a 75lb. Labradoodle who loves to run. When he didn’t emerge from the darkness that surrounded me, I hung my head, defeated. As I turned to go inside to rally the forces to help me look for him, I stumbled.  There he was, lying protectively right at my feet. The next morning, I contacted my doctor for the name of a sleep clinic.  As I work to reset the clocks that run my body and mind, I have to give over some thought to consider Plato’s allegory about the prisoners who are chained in a cave.  They perceive reality as what appears as shadows on the cave’s walls due to a fire that burns behind them.  In Plato’s story, Socrates, as a philosopher, can perceive the true action that occurs outside of the mouth of the cave, on the other side of the fire.  As a sleepwalker, I wonder about reality. I have moved and lived in a world that I perceive is real, only to discover I am functioning in a dream world. It makes it more difficult to be wholly certain that the waking world in which I am fighting to keep separate from the sleeping world is any more real.