A Dream of the Old House in Altadena, California

In the peculiar way of nighttime visions, I found myself standing in the yard of my childhood home, transported to an amorphous space where memories prevailed.

The day was a dreamscape of blue sky with sunlight and the strange beauty of relief; that is to say, I felt overjoyed to find the house untouched by flames, standing with fresh yellow paint, its spacious yards filled with greenery and flowers. Reports of its destruction in recent wildfires had been mistaken. By chance, the home remained unchanged from the 1970s and celebrated my return, spanning the distance of memory with ease and elegance. However, I was not alone.

In the nonlinear way of dreams, a group of women sat at a table on the lawn, with no particular context, like actors from a forgotten era. A wrought iron fixture brimming with luncheon items served as their prop. Pleased that the old structure was thriving in unanticipated glory, I told the women that it had once been my childhood home, very long ago. They were pleasantly surprised, but one stood and pointed to a section of the house that needed attention, overgrown as it was with a thick blanket of ivy that threatened its integrity.

And that was the end of the dream, my mind's retelling of the past, recollections of a time that never was.

In reality, the house had been lovely in its day, lawns manicured, beds of flowers and ivy trimmed with precision, roses established under our living room window in an array of colors. Blooming season after season, until the years of my mother's final decline, their fragrance remains with me, even now.

As for the backyard, it was designed for a child, inviting me to wonder and investigate the far reaches of a midcentury modern home. On the western property line, my father had built a wooden deck for our telescope, a place from which I would view the distant city of Los Angeles with its brilliant lights and promises of adventure. Just below the observation area was a small fishpond where the gardener planted seasonal flowers with great care. My mother was convinced that fish would be eaten by possums and racoons, so we settled for begonias. Adjacent to the pond was a great olive tree, the shade of which cooled our yard in summer and provided sustenance for the Gypsies who came each autumn to harvest its fruit. That tradition lasted throughout the 1970s.

I also recall the pink concrete that contributed to the backyard's ambience, the ground beneath us being a pastiche of segments, some pastel, others gray and set with a variety of rounded blue rocks; such was the quality of homes from the era.

And to the east, laurel sumacs thrived in the Angeles National Forest, where I would wander through yellow grass and imagine the land's former inhabitants. There, in forest shadows, a soft breeze might mimic the voice of someone long forgotten, the trail simultaneously inviting travelers into forbidding darkness.

The dream was my heart's gentle reminder of the past, pleasant but fleeting, hopeful yet realistic about the days to come.

Today, I'll allow the past to carry itself away as I enjoy the present. I'll continue to explore the beauty of Cortez, Colorado--where I am spending a pleasant summer--thankful for the memory of childhood excursions.

Perhaps each town retains dreams of beauty, ideas and images that survive the sorrow of reality.