Only after posting here my last note did I notice the name of that cemetery on Google Maps that I had already opened.
I knew the cemetery was there because I recall that is where Dale Parker was buried. I can recall talking to my sister that I had stopped there one time to visit his grave and that must have been the 1990s. I think I was driving that white 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee but maybe not. The more I think about it that might have been the early 1990s as in 1990 or 1991. I think I was driving that red 1990 Mazda RX-7 but I cannot recall that detail in that memory. The confusing detail is that I had driven through De Queen Arkansas on my way to visit in Ashdown Arkansas and that wasn't the route I usually drove there from South Carolina. In Charleston South Carolina from the US Navy base I would travel along US interstate highway I-20 and then turn north at Shreveport towards Texarkana. From Charlotte North Carolina I had driven I-40 through Tennessee and I seem to recall that distance was about the same as if I had taken I-85 to Atlanta. There was also that time I lived briefly in Memphis TN and I was just thinking of that yesterday and I think again with a sense of confounded certainty that my biological brother's wife was working as a medical doctor in a hospital in Memphis at that same time. I had an apartment I really liked that was on a golf course. The racketeering production the 1993 film "The Firm" is set in Memphis and I would have definitely been in Memphis just before that because I traded in that Mazda RX-7 for a brand new 1992 Plymouth Voyager automobile.
So anyway, I decided to make this note because I just noticed that cemetery in De Queen Arkansas is 'Redman.' I know exactly where it is but I had no idea its name. I doubt I would have ever guessed that name with only information from my mind.
In the dream, I saw those two actors from the racketeering production the 1994 television miniseries "The Stand." I seemed to be dreaming from the perspective where in the dream I was "Stu Redman." Riding on the back of the "Sears moped" I clearly saw in the dream was the actress who portrays "Frannie."
The dream started with some details that are now too vague to recall and then I am driving the "Sears moped" and "Frannie" is riding behind on a seat. I can't really visualize the construction of that "Sears moped" but I had clearly seen "Sears" printed somewhere on the frame and the vehicle seemed to be more of a ten-speed bicycle (of unknown gearing construction) and that had a gas-powered motor attached to it.
I was vaguely aware that I, from the perspective of the eyes of "Stu Redman" was driving that moped past that house I used to own in Greer South Carolina and I was aware in the dream that I, as "Stu Redman" in the dream, turned down the power on that loud moped motor as "I" passed that house and I was aware that was because "I" did not want to the occupants of the house, which I guess was mine, to hear "us" passing by on the street outside.
Then I was aware that the moped was almost out of gas and I was thinking about how that was because I had the power cranked up as far as it would go and the vehicle didn't travel very fast and I think being awake now of how despite the fact that the fuel was consumed very quickly I had yet seen myself start out in Greer South Carolina and then I was in De Queen Arkansas.
So we had traveled a long distance. Only after being awake did I think about how I had found myself almost out of fuel and while I had arrived in front of Randy Romine's house.
I was aware in the dream, as in "The Stand," that the world was empty now. I wasn't expecting to see any other people and I was standing in the car port of his house and I was puzzled at what I saw in a small trash can in the car port. There were cubes of ice floating in some water and there was other stuff in the trash can, which I guess was rubbish. I was standing there looking over and puzzled about why there was ice there where there shouldn't be ice and I recall that I pulled out a small screwdriver from the front pocket of my shirt, which was something I used to carry around for computer work in my employment in the 1990s and I think while in the US Navy, and I started to examine those cubes of ice but at that point "Frannie" walked away and started walking over to the house to the north because there was a man standing out there in the yard of that house and he was working on an automobile.
There was some other stuff going on after but I am not entirely certain which parts I dreamed after that point and which part are details I was thinking of after waking up.
I really wish I could get a good nights sleep.
Earlier I woke from a vivid dream where I again was aware that I was wearing the ribbon for the Navy Cross on my US Marine Corps uniform. I have been having those dreams for a while and today I was thinking afterwards, possibly not for the first time, that I am dreaming of actual memories of when I started wearing that ribbon on my uniform and what I am dreaming of is the memory of me noticing the reactions of other people who see that ribbon on my uniform shirt. So anyway, in this most recent dream, a woman, who seemed to be a civilian working in the same office I was attached to, asked me to look at a trash can there in one room of the office. There was something about civilian, perhaps her manager, wanted it looked at because another person, apparently a civilian had been in there and I not really clear what that was all about. So I am looking at the trash can, which is plastic and green and could have been a recycling bin, and the top cover has become warped and so the cover will not seal over the container. Then I, for some unknown reason, have turned over the container and I am looking at the light that tries to pass through the plastic structure that separates my line of sight from the light fixtures in the office building ceiling. That's when I notice there is a rectangular object casting a shadow as though there is a false bottom in the trash can and there is a rectangular object stored in the false bottom. I decide right then to try to catch that unknown civilian before he leaves the building, I am running or walking briskly through the hallways, someone might have commented then about my Navy Cross, then I am yelling at the security guards, who were fairly heavily armed with hidden weapons I could see as I came up behind them and their security guard desk counter but the person is already at the building's front door before they hear me and they can't stop him. I am then outside and had grabbed some paper from an office printer near the front door so I can write down the license plate of the car he runs to while I yell at him to stop. The last thing I hear is from the woman driving the car and she yells back to me, after I get almost beside her front door, "We're going to sue you!" I think she said more but that was the basic message. There was a bunch of other stuff I remember happening after but I am not certain if I dreamed those details or if those were details I thought about for hours afterwards.
http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html
Stephen King
The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition [ RACKETEER INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT ORGANIZATIONS US Title 18 ]
“I’ll be giving money to you before long,” Larry said. “Record’s number eighteen on the Billboard chart this week. I checked it in Sam Goody’s coming over here.”
“That’s wonderful. If you’re so loaded, why didn’t you buy a copy, instead of just looking?”
Suddenly there was some kind of a blockage in his throat. He harrumphed, but it didn’t go away.
“Well, never mind,” she said. “My tongue’s like a horse with a bad temper. Once it starts running, it just has to go on running until it’s tired out. You know that. Take fifteen, Larry. Call it a loan. I guess I will get it back, one way or the other.”
“You will,” he said. He came over to her and tugged at the hem of her dress like a little boy. She looked down. He stood on tiptoe and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Ma.”
She looked startled, not at the kiss but either at what he had said or the tone in which he had said it. “Why, I know that, Larry,” she said.
“About what you said. About being in trouble. I am, a little, but it’s not—”
Her voice was cold and stern at once. So cold, in fact, that it frightened him a little. “I don’t want to hear about that.”
“Okay,” he said. “Listen, Ma—what’s the best theater around here?”
“The Lux Twin,” she said, “but I don’t know what’s playing there.”
“It doesn’t matter. You know what I think? There’s three things you can get everyplace in America, but you can only get them good in New York City.”
“Yeah, Mr. New York Times critic? What are those?”
“Movies, baseball, and hotdogs from Nedick’s.”
She laughed. “You ain’t stupid, Larry—you never were.”
So he went down to the men’s room. And washed the blood off his forehead. And went back and kissed his mother again. And got fifteen dollars from her scuffed black purse. And went to the movies at the Lux. And watched an insane, malignant revenant named Freddy Krueger suck a number of teenagers into the quicksand of their own dreams, where all but one of them—the heroine—died. Freddy Krueger also appeared to die at the end, but it was hard to tell, and since this movie had a Roman numeral after its name and seemed to be well attended, Larry thought the man with the razors on the tips of his fingers would be back, without knowing that the persistent sound in the row behind him signaled the end to all that: there would be no more sequels, and in a very short time, there would be no more movies at all.
In the row behind Larry, a man was coughing.
Chapter 12
There was a grandfather clock standing in the far corner of the parlor. Frannie Goldsmith had been listening to its measured ticks and tocks all of her life. It summed up the room, which she had never liked and, on days like today, actively hated.
Her favorite room in the place was her father’s workshop. It was in the shed that connected house and barn. You got there through a small door which was barely five feet high and nearly hidden behind the old kitchen woodstove. The door was good to begin with: small and almost hidden, it was deliciously like the sort of door one encountered in fairy-tales and fantasies. When she grew older and taller, she had to duck through it just as her father did—her mother never went out into the workshop unless she absolutely had to. It was an Alice in Wonderland door, and for a while her pretend game, secret even from her father, was that one day when she opened it, she would not find Peter Goldsmith’s workshop at all. Instead she would find an underground passageway leading somehow from Wonderland to Hobbiton, a low but somehow cozy tunnel with rounded earthen sides and an earthen ceiling interlaced with sturdy roots that would give your head a good bump if you knocked it against any of them. A tunnel that smelled not of wet soil and damp and nasty bugs and worms, but one which smelled of cinnamon and baking apple pies, one which ended somewhere up ahead in the pantry of Bag End, where Mr. Bilbo Baggins was celebrating his eleventy-first birthday party…
Well, that cozy tunnel never turned out to be there, but to the Frannie Goldsmith who had grown up in this house, the workshop (sometimes called “the toolshop” by her father and “that dirty place where your dad goes to drink beer” by her mother) had been enough. Strange, tools and odd gadgets. A huge chest with a thousand drawers, each of the thousand crammed full. Nails, screws, bits, sandpaper (of three kinds: rough, rougher, and roughest), planes, levels, and all the other things she’d had no name for then and still had no name for. It was dark in the workshop except for the cobwebby forty-watt bulb that hung down by its cord and the bright circle of light from the Tensor lamp that was always focused where her father was working. There were the smells of dust and oil and pipesmoke, and it seemed to her now that there should be a rule: every father must smoke. Pipe cigar, cigarette, marijuana, hash, lettuce leaves, something. Because the smell of smoke seemed an integral part of her own childhood.
“Hand me that wrench, Frannie. No—the little one. What did you do at school today?… She did?… Well why would Ruthie Sears want to push you down?… Yes, it is nasty: Very nasty scrape. But it goes good with the color of your dress, don’t you think? Now if you could only find Ruthie Sears and get her to push you down again and scrape the other leg. Then you’d have a pair. Hand me that big screwdriver, would you?… No, the one with the yellow handle.”
“Frannie Goldsmith! You come out of that nasty place right now and change your schoolclothes! RIGHT… NOW! You’ll be filthy! ”
Even now, at twenty-one, she could duck through that doorway and stand between his worktable and the old Ben Franklin stove that gave out such stuperous heat in the wintertime and catch some of what it had felt like to be such a small Frannie Goldsmith growing up in this house. It was an illusory feeling, almost always intermingled with sadness for her barely remembered brother Fred, whose own growing-up had been so rudely and finally interrupted. She could stand and smell the oil that was rubbed into everything, the must, the faint odor of her father’s pipe. She could rarely remember what it had been like to be so small, so strangely small, but out there she sometimes could, and it was a glad way to feel.
But the parlor, now.
The parlor.
If the workshop was the goodness of childhood, symbolized by the phantom smell of her father’s pipe (he sometimes puffed smoke gently into her ear when she had an earache, always after extracting a promise that she wouldn’t tell Carla, who would have had a fit), then the parlor was everything in childhood you wished you could forget. Speak when spoken to! Easier to break it than to fix it! Go right upstairs this minute and change your clothes, don’t you know that isn’t suitable? Don’t you ever think? Frannie, don’t pick at your clothes, people will think you have fleas. What must your Uncle Andrew and Aunt Carlene think? You embarrassed me half to death! The parlor was where you were tongue-tied, the parlor was where you itched and couldn’t scratch, the parlor was dictatorial commands, boring conversation, relatives pinching cheeks, aches, sneezes that couldn’t be sneezed, coughs that couldn’t be coughed, and above all, yawns that must not be yawned.
At the center of this room where her mother’s spirit dwelt was the clock. It had been built in 1889 by Carla’s grandfather, Tobias Downes, and it had ascended to family heirloom status almost immediately, shifting down through the years, carefully packed and insured for moves from one part of the country to another (it had originally come into being in the Buffalo, New York, workshop of Tobias, a place which had undoubtedly been every bit as smoky and nasty as Peter’s workshop, although such a comment would have struck Carla as completely irrelevant), sometimes shifting from one section of the family to another when cancer, heart attack, or accident pinched off some branch of the family tree. The clock had been in this parlor since Peter and Carla Goldsmith moved into the house some thirty-six years ago. Here it had been placed and here it had stayed, ticking and tocking, marking off segments of time in a dry age.
- posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 3:16 PM Pacific Time USA Friday 08 June 2012
