Two Dreams Between 6:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m.

Bright Idea, 2003

1.

George W. Bush is asking for my opinion about what to do about Rt. 12, north of Corolla, North Carolina. This is a “road” only in the technical sense. It’s the stretch of beach that runs up through Carova to the Virginia border that is designated as a road. (The road is whatever part of the beach is firm enough to support vehicles. If you have your beach chair planted at the surf’s edge and that happens to be the firmest part of the beach, you have to move your chair to let traffic by.) We have a long and constructive conversation about Rt. 12. Other people are called in. There is a lot of give and take.

The next morning, still in the same dream, I call back to add a few thoughts. I have no memory of what I said the night before. No one remembers there was even a conversation. They tell me George W. Bush has never been to the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

I awake confused and write all this down.

2.

I notice that a family living near me is having trouble taking down some trees. They lack the proper tools to do the job easily or safely. I can tell they don’t know what they’re doing.

I don’t actually know these people. They’re the kind of people who live far enough away that you don’t know them, but close enough that you pass them regularly enough to be recognized and waved at.

I go over to see the people and offer the use of my chain saw, which I realize on the way over has a dull blade. When I get there, the yard is a mess. The husband has just driven off in the car. Finding myself at the front door with no way to slip away without drawing attention, I go ahead and knock. A teenage son wearing a green plastic dangly earring comes to the door.

“Oh, are you here to help us with our divorce?” he asks snidely.

Before I can back away, his mother comes to the door. Embarrassed at the awkwardness of the situation, I hold up my chain saw up so that she can see it through the storm door as I explain why I’m there.

Rather than run me off, the mother is touched by my generosity. She exclaims, “That’s so country of you.”

We don’t live in the country.