There's a company that sets up and maintains aviaries. I want one.
Birds of a feather.
The Land of Bad Dreams
bad dreams live in Michigan
Way back when, Chef Boy ‘R Mine had a nightmare. I slept through his screaming (I’m a sound sleeper), but Ex O’Mine ran in at the very first of the blood-curdling scream. Soothing the child (he was and is a very good father), he told the boy that he’d chased the bad dream away back to the Land of Bad Dreams. The child asked where that was. Groggy and put on the spot, the ex said the first thing that popped into his head – “Michigan. Michigan is where bad dreams live.”
[Now. The boy was confused because I always told him the bad dreams were caused by using the wrong side of the pillow. We then made quite a to-do of turning the pillow over, smoothing it, and peeking under it to check for certain that we had the right side down.]
Michigan may have popped into the ex’s head because my parents were setting out in a couple of days to visit the extended family. When Child O’Mine heard later, he was appalled – he decidedly did not want his cherished grandparents near the Land of Bad Dreams. My father had to do a lot of fancy talking to ease the child’s mind.
Michigan has, forever since, been re-dubbed the Land of Bad Dreams notwithstanding the fact that almost all of my extended family live there.
The whole thing was doubly poignant (and kind of funny) because both parents had some horrendous childhood experiences in Michigan. The sweetness of my son’s concerns softened their bad dreams a bit.
Neither my son nor I have nightmares often. I do, however, have a recurring dream that’s eerie. I don’t wake scared – more puzzled. I’ve been having this dream since I was about 13. If memory serves, the first time was during my first menstrual period. [The women amongst us (and some of the men) know that menses can provoke all sorts of psycho-drama.]
Moody Blues
I don’t have it often, but once a year or so, I will dream of the white house. In my dream, I’m wearing a long flowing nightgown – white- suitable for the cover of a romance novel. I’m in a shabby cottage. Everything is white. The linoleum is white, the walls, the appliances, the curtains, the doors, the woodwork and the fireplace mantle. The only thing not white is a poster hanging above the fireplace. The poster changes through the years. At 13, I think it was a Moody Blues album cover – In Search of the Lost Chord. Later, it was Mary Lou Retton. Most recently, it was Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
The dream never lasts long. I’m in the house. I waft from room to room. I always have a sense of puzzlement – of what I don’t know. The lack of furniture? The unrelenting white? The poster? The cracked and scarred linoleum?
The Pier
After exploring the house, I open the front door to find that it leads directly to a pier – a very long pier. There’s no porch or walkway to the pier. The pier is the porch. It’s gray and foggy outside. The sky and water are so gray it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other. The fog has settled in and the beige of the sand is completely obscured. I walk to the end of the pier for what seems miles. During the walk, I watch my bare feet carefully negotiate the pier. The pier is ancient and splintering.
At the end, I look into the water and notice sunlight dapples. I look up to find the fog has lifted and the sun has come out. I look to the left and I look to the right and for miles and miles all I see are identical houses with identical piers.
The dream always ends there.
I have analyzed this dream from every angle. Not a clue. If my psyche is trying to tell me something, it needs to start speaking a language I can understand.
I went to Michigan this week to attend my grandmother’s funeral.
rocks, sand, autumn leaves
We stayed in a charming motel on a lake – a delightful mom & pop place. I scoped out the scenery as soon as we checked in, but the purpose of the trip precluded my itch to grab the camera and go play.
This morning I woke up at dawn. Quickly slipping into jeans and a sweatshirt while grabbing the camera, I quietly opened the sliding glass doors and walked through the early morning drizzle and fog to the lake.
There was the pier.
the white pier
In my dream, the pier had always been weathered, gray wood. I now know that was wrong.
The pier is white – in keeping with the house. I think my psyche didn’t know there were white piers.
I shivered.
I hurried to the pier. My sleepy self was convinced if I stood on that pier, I would understand.
I stood on the pier. I sat on the pier. I took off my shoes and put my feet in the freezing water. I let the rain sluice over my head. I watched the wind ripple on the water and enjoyed the scent of early morning pines.
beach rocks
I took photos. Dozens. I sat in a chair and stared at the pier, the lake, the trees, the falling leaves. I fell a little bit in love with Michigan.
I still don’t have a flippin’ clue what the dream is about. But I expect to have it tonight.
I still think the dream takes place on the Atlantic ocean, but a Land of Bad Dreams pier is going to change the tableau. Lord only knows what the poster will be tonight – I was admiring a Georgia O’Keefe at a bookstore today.
And all of this reminds me of one of my all-time favorite quotes: If little else, the brain is an educational toy. (Tom Robbins).
I need more time at this pier. I think the red hammock will entice HMOkeefe. (He likes hammocks.)
red hammock at dawn
And I did fall a tiny bit in love with Michigan – the Land of Bad Dreams – the memories of my childhood and the beauty of this morning’s scenery contributing. And that motel was just too charming. Yes, I need to go back and spend more time on that pier.
I have got to unlock this dream which I just know I will have tonight.
Roadtrip Essential
Me? Jittery? Oh, pshaw.
Emma’s Pie
We’ve all heard it – life’s short, eat dessert first.
I had a dancing buddy that actually did. One of the very first times we went out, he ordered dessert in lieu of an appetizer. I believe it was chocolate mousse. [He’s an interesting guy. I should call him – we haven’t been dancing in forever.]
While I often say that I don’t feel (intellectually or emotionally or spiritually – my body is another matter) older than I did at 25, I am much more aware of the passing of time. Even at 25, there seemed to be eons between Christmas seasons. Now? It feels like last week. Hell, it feels like last week that I was 25.
The other day I had a powerful urge for coconut cream pie. The nearest place was the Bob Evans. Chez Bob’s for dessert always creates a dilemma. I like their French silk pie as much as their coconut cream. As I walked over, I made the bold decision to skip lunch altogether and have both.
My love affair with coconut cream pie began in January of 1970. I’d never had it before. En route via luxury ocean liner from Hawaii to California during one of our many relocations, we were assigned a table, dining times, and a waiter.
Dean, the waiter, quickly bonded with my brother and I. My mother was horribly seasick, my father didn’t do breakfast, and my 10-year-old self and 7-year-old brother would arrive for breakfast and lunch alone. In 1970 it was believed safe for children to run around unattended.
I think Dean enjoyed us. If memory serves, he was about 25. One evening early in the cruise before Mom succumbed to violent seasickness, Dean suggested coconut cream pie for dessert following dinner. My father encouraged me to try it.
Oh my. It was, hands down, the best thing I’d ever put in my mouth. From then on, I had coconut cream pie at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, and at various times during the day when I wandered into the dining room. It got so that Dean had the pie waiting for me lest they run out before our seating. I ate my Twiggy-style bodyweight in coconut cream pie during that cruise.
At our last meal, Dean presented me with an entire pie, carefully wrapped in a pastry box and tied with a ribbon. He knew from our conversations that we were looking at a 3000 mile cross-country drive and figured I’d enjoy some pie.
[In Texas, some guy took a look at the Hawaii license plates and asked my Dad how we got that car here?. My dad looked him in the eye and said, “That’s the longest bridge you’ve ever seen.]
I have fond memories of nibbling at that pie late one night as we navigated St. Louis in a snowstorm, my head poked into Pippi Longstocking by flashlight.
I made that pie last for miles.
I’ve adored coconut cream pie ever since. I am also uncommonly fond of French silk pie (and mousse, for that matter) all of which is pretty odd because I’m not generally a dessert person – two pieces at Bob Evans notwithstanding. Ordinarily, I’d much rather burn those calories on appetizers. [Some day I’ll tell the Greenbriar story and my “free” meal.]
After St. Louis and various other locales along Rt. 66, we finally ended up in northern Michigan at the paternal grandmother’s house. It had been so long since I’d seen her that I had no memory of her. Essentially, I was meeting her for the first time. My dad, unbelievably, had not told her we were coming, preferring to surprise her.
My my, was she surprised.
And, my oh my, is Michigan ever cold in January – particularly after the tropics.
Emma was a baker. In fact, she was the pastry chef at what passed for that area’s haute cuisine restaurant – not that they ever gave her such a title, officially. The restaurant was famous for their chocolate bottom pie and nobody could make it as well as Emma.
In violation of the rules regarding the secret recipe, Emma made it for holidays and whatnot. A widow and subsequent divorcee with 8 kids, it was common knowledge she’d never be able to afford to take the kids to the restaurant. I doubt she ever made much more than minimum wage. I think she felt entitled to take that recipe home.
But she never gave the recipe out.
Chocolate bottom pie is a confection of luscious vanilla cream filling, chocolate, nuts, flaky pie crust, and whipped cream. The sum is much, much more than the sum .of its parts. It’s actually
simple to make. It toppled, quickly, coconut cream pie’s short-lived status as the best thing I ever put in my mouth.
Emma would allow you to watch her make it, forbid you to let anyone else see, and thus the recipe wanders through the family. My mother makes a down-and-dirty version utilizing boxed pudding and still it’s fabulous. Between Dean’s coconut cream pie and Emma’s chocolate bottom, how I vowed to learn to bake. All of Emma’s baked goods were exquisite, but it’s the pie I remember most.
It took me years, but I can churn out a chocolate bottom pie that will make you weep tears of chocolate joy.
Emma was a wonderful woman. A sturdy woman. A resilient woman. Without any help, she raised those kids in abject poverty while working in an upscale restaurant for minimum wage – the restaurant she made famous with her pies, the restaurant she couldn’t afford to take her kids to.
Emma was not the sweet grandmotherly type. She was tough as nails. She had to be. But her laugh was something to experience as was her ire. Her cooking – her cooking was sweet. She is the end of an era.
She died on Sunday and I should be packing in preparation for leaving for her funeral tomorrow morning
She loved her children and they loved her. Three of her children preceded her in death. The remaining five still love her with a passion.
Tomorrow is going to be hard.
We’re glad she didn’t suffer long. And we’re glad to have had her as long as we did.
Tomorrow brings another, much shorter, cross-country trip to Michigan. I think it’s going to be difficult for my parents. Emma was an icon for both of them. I’m going as much for them as to say goodbye. More than likely, like my 10-year-old self, I’ll be stuck in the backseat with no coconut cream and, certainly not, chocolate bottom pie. But there will be a great many memories and good conversation.
And, no, I don’t give out the recipe for chocolate bottom pie.
I promised Emma, I wouldn’t.
W. Va. Fur and Root 