Pink House

Sunday night, July 19

It was wintertime, and I was in Summerville, South Carolina. There was no snow of course, but it was plenty cold, particulary because it was nighttime. I was staring up at my aunt's large house, still clad in boards, still standing at the end of South Magnolia Street, as it has since the 1840s. Its appearance had recently changed a great deal. No longer was the home painted white with the familiar black shutters; now it was painted a garish hot pink, with purple shutters. My aunt still lived there, but most of the building had been converted to a hotel. As I pondered all of this, a fast, nearly frozen stream rushed along nearby, practically under my feet.

I went inside, and the place was brimming with noise and confusion. Many of my cousins and other family members were there for a family wedding, and I wasn't sure where I was supposed to be, or what was happening next. Several of them passed by me near the concierge desk. They were all dressed in black formal attire, and were apparently heading out for a celebratory dinner or some other important event that I should attend, if I only knew what or where it was. I looked down and noticed that although I had the proper black pants and sport coat, I was wearing a loose, short-sleeved cotton button-down shirt made in India, which (to me, anyway) was dyed a very pleasing light aqua color. Right shirt; wrong occasion.

Suddenly everyone else had walked out the door, and I didn't know what to do next. I didn't know where to go to catch them, and I didn't know my room number at the hotel. I decided to walk around to the other side of the house (on the main floor) and sat down to collect my thoughts. My dad found me there and sat down across from me. He had a stern look on his face, and demanded to know why I wasn't where I was supposed to be, with the rest of the family.

*****

Dad was thinner in this dream; more reminiscent of the way he looked in early 1960s. In fact, it's odd that I dream of Dad appearing in a way that I don't remember at all, at least not consciously. (Then again, maybe that's the point. In dreams, one's subconscious comes out to play.) Dad was beginning to put on some weight by 1966 or so, and got much heavier after he quit smoking in the early 1970s. My brother Jimmie would have much stronger memories of a thinner Dad.

By the way, I love that aqua shirt. I wore it the other night while my wife and I strolled around the neighborhood.