29/ A Shared Dream

When Jill and her best friend were in 7th grade, they shared a dream one night. N. dreamed that she ate half a PB&J sandwich and woke up. Jill dreamed she ate the other half.  Then they went outside and saw a wolf at the edge of the woods. They walked back to the house just before the wolf charged.

28/ The Process of Dreaming

We spend so much of our lives dreaming; you’d think science would study it intensively. There’s a lot we don’t know. Even those with no artistic talent create detailed people and buildings they’ve never seen. How do we do it? A former NASA scientist once wrote a book about astral projection, suggesting we sometimes leave our bodies when we dream.

27/ Highlights From Various Dreams

From various dreams: A necklace made from plastic-covered shrunken fortune cookies. A large salad serving spoon dated 1968. A bright blue cardinal with blue eyelids. A little girl at the window of an RV. A gigantic plant growing in a shallow dish. A young blonde wearing a safety harness climbing along the ceiling with the plant. A black 2005 Jeep with gold lettering.

26/ A Family That Sings Together . . .

Watching the previous video of the McGarrigles reminded me of Kate McGarrigle’s son, Rufus Wainwright. His father is Loudon Wainwright, as you probably know. I love Rufus’ voice. I’ve heard it described as “an acquired taste,” but I acquired it immediately. Listening to the family make music together is an emotional experience for me, as it’s something I always wanted.

25/ A Dream from 2016

Two years ago I dreamed I bought a Christmas ornament at a yard sale. It contained a picture of little girl. When I took it out of my pocket later, it was different. It showed a heart, and an inscription that said, “I love you, and if I could be with you I would.” I knew it was from Jill.

24/ The Songs of Jimmy Webb

Thanks in part to songs I heard on Linda Ronstadt’s and Judy Collins’ albums, one of my favorite composers is Jimmy Webb. His songs can be narratives (“By the Time I Get to Phoenix”), be complex (“MacArthur Park”), and, like the two I’m linking, be hauntingly beautiful. Here’s “The Moon’s a Harsh Mistress” (Judy Collins) and "Adios (Linda Ronstadt).

23/ Heart Like a Wheel

I was a huge Linda Ronstadt fan from the first time I heard "Long, Long Time." I don't think I bought all her albums over the years, but close to it. Of all her songs, one of my favorites is “Heart Like a Wheel.” Here’s a version where she sings with the composers. So sad that Parkinson’s took her voice.

22/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part XIV

Last on my list, I wanted nicer furniture. In 2002 all the remodeling we’d talked about for years was finally underway, and I hit the antique stores and other furniture sources. It was too late for the kids to enjoy the nicer surroundings, and my husband was in a nursing home. But as I’ve said so often, everything’s a trade-off.

21/ The Songs I Sang (in my teens)

At home in my teens, when I wasn’t harmonizing with 45 RPM pop ballads I sang along with “Eydie (Gorme) Swings the Blues,” memorizing all her arrangements. I still remember every song, every word. I was also hooked on Olatunji’s “Drums of Passion,” but the only word of that LP I remember is akiwowo. I had an eclectic musical life.

20/ My Dad's Second (and last, so far) Dream Visit

In my dad’s second dream visit he handed me an $80 bill and a $2 bill. A friend and I decided it could mean Don’t worry about dying young; you’ll live to be 82. (People whose parent died young often worry about doing the same.) That was reassuring at the time, but the older me sometimes worries about self-fulfilling prophesies.

19/ My Dad's First Dream Visit

In my late father’s first dream visit I told him I loved and missed him. He said, “I love you too, but I don’t miss you. I don’t know why.” I asked him what it was like to die. He answered at length, but when I recalled the dream his answer was garbled, totally unintelligible. I wasn’t supposed to know.

18/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part XIII

I wanted more storage room in the house. The people who built my old farmhouse over 150 years ago had farming clothes and church clothes, and that was about it. My bedroom doesn’t have a closet, and there are no closets downstairs. The only built-ins are living-room bookcases the previous owners added in the 1970s. Nothing has changed since 1986.

17/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part XII

In 1986 I wanted a better appearance. To me today, my appearance in 1986 was just fine. I was 32 years younger! But I’d immersed myself in motherhood, wore "mom clothes," and rarely wore makeup. I lost confidence along with the many inches I’d cut from my long blonde hair. Found it again when I lost weight nine years later.

16/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part XI

The final section of my list was "I want to have:" The first three items were a word processor, a video camera and VCR, and a puppy. The following year we got our first computer, the exciting Amiga. We got the camera (expensive then!) and VCR too. And in 1993 Jill rescued (off a busy street) Angel, my heaven-sent Briard.

15/ Still Laughing About Last Night's Dream

The owner of a dingy urban candy store came out of the back room to walk me to my car. Youngish and unattractive, he had a withered leg and dragged his foot in a heavy black shoe. He kissed me lightly, and I said, “My lips are so dry I didn’t feel that.” Then I kissed him softly and tenderly.

14/ The Song the Boys Couldn't Resist

As a teenager, I often sang the song “My Man” at parties. I had a lot of requests for it. So many times I sang these lyrics, never thinking twice about them: “He isn’t good, he isn’t true, he beats me too. What can I do?” I was more focused on this part: “Oh, my man, I love him so.”

13/ The Song I Couldn't Resist

I was a new reporter, assigned to interview the administrator of a senior center. It was hard to concentrate because my attention kept drifting to the elderly gentleman playing old standards so beautifully on a piano across the room. When I heard “Embraceable You” I couldn’t resist. I abandoned the interview, walked over to the piano, smiled happily, and sang.

12/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part X

I wanted to do more to help animals. And succeeded. Over the years we adopted many dogs and cats from shelters and off the street. Of the 11 horses we eventually acquired, several were rescues. Plus we donated regularly to animal charities. Today I have only cats, but I freeze all my meat, chicken, and egg scraps for shelter dogs.

11/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part IX

I wanted (so badly) to get organized. Today I still want it, still so badly. I can blame the house, with its impressive lack of closets and built-in storage (and I have!), but the fact is organization completely eludes me. I lack the skills. And at my present age, distractibility has morphed into absentmindedness. I make more messes than ever.

10/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part VIII

Lose 20 pounds was next on my list. Only 20?? Things must have gotten a lot worse after age 42 because 10 years later I lost almost 50 pounds. Just so you don’t think I overdid it, I ended up a size 12. For me on my square shouldered, slim hipped frame, that was my smallest size ever. Yes—success!

9/ The Voices

For quite a long time in my forties when I approached the hypnagogic state before sleep I would deliberately listen hard. Really strain to listen. And then I would hear them: Phrases, sentences, uttered in different voices and emotions. At first I thought they must be replays of conversations I’d unconsciously overheard during the day. But they were something else.

8/ A Recurring Dream From Years Ago

Taking a break from my list to mention a recurring dream I used to have. My house was an old, unattractive urban brick box of a building, several stories high. Inside, it was spacious and welcoming, with warm woods, several large bedroom suites, and a moat around the kitchen. I had this dream many times, but never figured it out.

7/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part VII

The next category on my list was “I want to do” and the first item was more socializing—not something my husband craved at all. But I successfully pulled off an annual Christmas party for people who liked to sing, and even met one of my best friends that way. Now I need to push myself to do something similar.

6/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part VI

Last in the “I want to be” section of my list was a writer. Since I didn’t say famous writer (I never wanted that) or a novelist, I’d say I succeeded. Between my years as a newspaper reporter and many freelance assignments, I fulfilled my wish to “know that someone thinks enough of my work to pay me for it.”

5/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part V

Next on my list was the dream of becoming more spiritual. I did achieve this, gradually at first as I continued reading books on reincarnation, etc., and discussed spiritual matters with Jill. But my spirituality took a quantum leap after she died. Thanks to Jill, I found out I was an unusually good receiver. Or perhaps I suddenly became one.

4/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part IV

Be more self-disciplined was third on my list. Did I succeed? My best answer is I think so. Sort of. In 1986 I was 42. I remember realizing at some point in my forties that I had gained wisdom in that decade. Maybe some of the wisdom translated to an improvement in self-discipline. Or maybe it took one more decade.

3/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part III

Second on the list was my dream to be a better housekeeper. I find it interesting that I wrote these reasons underneath: "Joe will be proud of me. Joe would enjoy his home." Only under that did I mention my own feelings. Hmm . . . I guess it's not at all surprising that I failed at this one. I’m still a random housekeeper.

2/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part II

. . . I realized I did fairly well on at least some of them. Taking the list from the top,

I wanted to be a better mother. I don’t know if I achieved that or not. I suspect I continued to be the kind of mother I always was, but I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I was a loving mother.

1/ 1986 Dreams for Myself, Part I

I found a list I wrote in January, 1986, probably inspired by New Years Resolution thinking. I listed what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do, and what I wanted to have. Reading it for the first time after I found it, I was sad about all the things I’d failed to achieve. But upon reading it again . . .  

30 and 31/ A Sestina that Deserves Two Days

(Written by Gillian Jaffer for her brother following a road trip the two of them took, along with one of his friends, to Ocean City, Maryland)



                         Sestina  

He threw the ball of witch’s hair

pulled from trees over brackish swamp.

I caught it with my hands and heart.

“You are an Indian,” he says.

I’ll weave it just to prove I’m real

and remember when we came this way.

I know that he will lead the way.

I am gracious, ignoring my hair.

No one to impress is now real

freedom from the civilized swamp

that drags me down.  “It sucks,” he says.

Like a leech upon my heart.

The pony warms and breaks my heart,             

but he points him out anyway.                        

“This life is all he knows,” he says.                             

I pet his face and patchy hair,                                   

coarse like moss in the southern swamp.          

I believe his insight is real.

I cannot believe this is real.

The waves crest and swell with my heart.

The ocean makes our lake a swamp.

I want it to sweep me away,

sucking my bones and twisted hair.

I am speechless.  “Wow,” he says.

“Fireworks and ham,” the sign says.

How otherworldly and unreal.

The owner’s breath smells like the hair

of the dog’s life that pumps her heart.

I wonder:  Did she lose her way

to the keys and ultimate swamp?

The car smells of beach and swamp

and so do I, my brother says.                                    

I wouldn’t have it another way.                        

The things that make our journey real             

and not a dream that breaks my heart;            

perhaps I’ll never wash my hair.

I wash my hair of the endless swamp,

of things that break my heart. "Be secure," he says.

For advice this real, I go out of my way.                       

29/ To Write the Number 50, Part II

You brake on the straight

and accelerate on a nice rounded curve.

Then back up to the top for a quick,

smooth lateral on the Niner.* Or would

you prefer the Pivot?* You choose.

No hills,

no rocks,

no fallen logs,

no wasp nests.

You take a break, enjoy a pause,

absorb some refreshing white space

before putting on a ski (water this time)

to execute the graceful loop of great significance.

Piece of cake. Barely a ripple on the lake.

You’ve aced it, as you’ve aced so many things

in so many ways.

* Niner and Pivot are the brands of his mountain bikes.

28/ To Write the Number 50, Part I

(Written for my son-in-law's 50th birthday, the poem should be read aloud while writing the number 50 in the air.)

To Write the Number 50

To write the number 50

you begin with a short down line,

which, it is important to remember,

is identical to an up line:

nice and straight, purposeful,

a breezy BMC coast on an easy grade.

Off the bike and into something

more substantial. Do you take the truck?

One of the Porsches? Or the Audi

you’re planning to give to your mother-in-law

when you tire of it?

27/ Dressing to Go Out, Part II

Comfort standards of the living don’t apply

to the dead, but we apply them anyway.

We know we don’t stay in our graves,

but we have firm ideas of who should be buried

next to us and who should not. We seek

shady gravesites for the heat of summer,

worry about bitter cold in winter, and push

away any thought of what actually

goes on inside the coffin.

Forty-three years later my stepmother died

in Florida with her dog and me at her side.

I walked the small cemetery a long time

and chose a gravesite under a tree. 

Her neighbors asked what I thought

she should wear. We opened her closet.

Her slippers, sitting neatly side by side,

waited for her to step into them.

Empty slacks, tops, dresses, waited to be slipped

from their hangers. I passed them by

and chose the robe I’d given her

that Christmas. It was pink chenille. So soft.

26/ Dressing to Go Out, Part I

Dressing to Go Out

The neighbors took me with them

to buy a dress to bury my mother in.

I was nine. They may have thought I’d want

to be part of the process, or more likely

they didn’t know what else to do with me.

They let me think I helped

pick out the dress. It was black.

Black was something she wore for rare

evenings out, or more often gatherings

at home with their friends. Beer or mixed

drinks, food, music and laughter.

She owned a black velvet hooded cape,

Long and dramatic. My dad photographed

her in it, and in everything else. And in nothing.

His portraits of her fill albums, boxes.

I thought she’d like the black dress,

But I don’t know where I imagined

she’d wear it. Today the term

is “magical thinking.” I remember

the sickening shock of seeing her

in the coffin. I hear my loud hysterics,

see myself taken hurriedly out of the funeral home,

smell the cloying scent that comes back

to me every time I enter a florist shop.