Memory Garden

Friday night

I was on vacation, and had rented a nice house built in the early 20th century; or, at least I had rented a room in said house. I soon realized that I was not alone. I had driven a purple car, sort of a mod, sleek, long pickup truck, and parked it near the house. After dropping off my stuff, I'd gone for a walk. When I came back I found that some other person had not only parked right next to me in the spot -- he had a car that somehow merged exactly with mine to create some super duper truck thingy. By that, I mean that I could still see my purple car underneath, on the right side of the contraption, but now there was this other white car on the whole left side of my vehicle, and a camper cab extended over the back portion. I should have been angry, but I was pretty fascinated. The chance of meeting someone whose car would snap perfectly onto mine was one in a million, and here he (or she) was, renting the same house I was. I peered through a front side window and saw that the ashtray was pulled out. That wasn't a good sign.

I walked inside and found that there was no privacy in my room, either. Someone had picked through some of the cassette tapes I'd piled on top of my dresser and had opened some of the drawers. I walked around to another room where I found the man who owned the white camper car -- he seemed to be about 30. I said, "Hello. I can't believe that your car snaps onto mine like that!" He didn't say anything -- he was getting ready to take a shower. He walked toward the bathroom and started to disrobe, so I turned away before I saw any naughty bits, and continued exploring the rest of the house. To my surprise, I found several women in the kitchen. They were all part of a large, multi-generational Jewish family, and they were preparing lunch. A plate of brownies was on the kitchen table. The oldest woman, short and plump, saw me and said, "Hello, Mr. [my first name]."

I continued walking through the house, heading to my right, and came to a doorway that was open to the outside. There I saw what I'd come to witness in the first place. That part of the house sat at the top of a thin winding street; the area seemed to be part of a claustrophobic, cramped old European neighborhood. Someone had erected concrete benches, more like steps, on either side of the road, and people from miles around were gathered, awaiting the arrival of a celebrity. Suddenly someone called out, "There He Is!" I looked down and saw Tim Burton, tousled hair and all, walking up the street. He was there to direct some scenes for his upcoming movie. He made his way to a high step near the house. I saw that his name was stamped in the concrete in capital letters, so no one else would take his seat.

Having seen Mr. Burton, I walked back through the rental house, and outside, across the yard, to the garden. There I was joined by my brother, Andrew, who said, "I had that game closed TWICE [but lost]. I really need a first baseman." It wasn't clear whether he was talking about some Wiffle Ball games that he'd pitched, or about professional players he "owned" in a Rotisserie baseball league. In any case, I was far more interested in the garden. It appeared to be a tribute to one or more women who lived in the house back in the Victorian era. I saw some beautiful sculptures of women's heads, lovingly rendered in glass, larger than life-size, and mounted on poles. (At least one had a light bulb inside, for illumination in the evening.) The thing that really knocked me out was that many of the trees in the garden -- all about the size of dogwoods -- had somehow been turned into portraits of these women from long ago. They were extraordinary, and very detailed. Viewed from several feet away, the trees seemed to come alive; the leaves formed the hair, cherries took place of eyes; vines became wisps of hair that trailed along the bark "neck." Some trees had been expertly trained to appear to be lovely silhouettes of womens' faces. All of the works seemed to echo the art of Charles Dana Gibson. In a hushed voice, I called out to my brother: "Look, Andrew! They're people!"

*****

Tim Burton again. How strange. I'm not a big fan of his films, but I liked "Edward Scissorhands" OK, mainly because Vincent Price was in it.

My wife and I were back in Virginia recently, and played a game of Wiffle Ball with the nieces and nephews. While my team was at bat, my wife's 6-year-old teammate moped at her left, calling out, "But I don't know HOW to play first base!" I suppose that that was still better than my 5-year-old teammate, who rode his bike around the infield, calling out, "I don't know the rules! I don't know the rules!"

My next-door neighbor, Hilda, and her husband, Jack, invited my wife and me for dinner at their place on Friday night. Hilda frequently greets me with, "Hello, Mr. [my first name]," as the Jewish grandmother did in the kitchen.

The images of the women in the garden probably came from Victorian photographs that I saw in an antique shop during our drive back home last Monday. I always wonder where those people went and what became of them after their photos were taken.

The car that I drove in this dream is one of my prized vintage Hot Wheels, a purple 1968 Custom Fleetside, which was based on a custom Chevrolet El Camino pickup. I told my wife about this dream, and said that if I ever hit the jackpot, I'd love to have some of those guys out in California who build Hot Rods construct me the Hot Wheels car of my dreams. It probably wouldn't be the Custom Fleetside, however; more likely the Silhouette, the Splittin' Image, or the Classic '32 Ford Vicky. She said she'd take a G.T.O.