Dreamin’ My Life Away
It was not like any dream I’d had before. Usually I can tie a dream to a recent event or conversation. Sometimes the dream is a recollection of a feeling, such as the one in which I’m running a marathon. My conditioning in the dream is such that I’m invincible and can run forever. There is always a feeling of disappointment when I awaken from that one. Very rarely, only three or four times in my life, has the dream been a repeat, a re-run. Such as the one I call the Garden of Eden. The land abounds with deer, elk, horses, birds of all descriptions, and me. There is a feeling of such peace. While the terrain is mountainous, I travel with no tiredness. That one I like.
The unusual dream, one never before experienced, was so different that I’m still pondering its significance. It was as though I was making a training film about something from my past. Something not experienced for over twenty-five years. It was an instructional dream on how to field dress a deer.
There was a point in my life when the annual deer hunt inUtah was necessary. A locker full of venison was assurance that I would be able to feed my family through the year. Steaks, chops, roasts and hamburger were staples in our diet. Generally, they were venison.
My father-in-law early on taught me the proper way to dress our kill, to preserve the meat in the best way possible. First he had me watch him, carefully explaining each cut. Then he supervised my efforts.
This is a necessary, but unpleasant, part of providing meat for the table. It is a dirty, messy, even disgusting part of the hunt. I’ll not go into the detail of the dream, but it was a re-enactment of the entire process.
I awoke from this dream puzzled by its significance, if any. Why, after all these years, would my mind go to such an event? I lay in bed podering, with still no light visible through the window. There was a conversation two months ago about hunting in which I laughingly said, “The fun goes out of the hunt once you shoot a deer.” Could that be the reason for the dream?
There was another conversation about the lost techniques of survival—canning vegetables, curing meat, even planting a garden, putting food on the table, providing heat, sewing clothing, and any of a thousand things needed for basic survival should our civilization collapse. Was there a political tone to the dream?
My mind returned to the man who had taught me the steps of taking proper care of a kill. There were so many things he’d taught me. My introduction to fly fishing was one. I smiled at the recollection of and agreement with the saying “God does not deduct from the allotted time of man, that time spent fly fishing.” That lead to a recollection of the many fishing trips we’d shared. He’d introduced me to my favorite place in the world, a place in theHighUintahMountainsofUtah called Red Castle. I recalled the day that we had spontaneously gone skinny dipping in a coldMontana stream. He had a ’50s Chevrolet pickup. No four-wheel drive, just a compound gear he’d called the “Squirrel Gear” because it’d climb anything. It sure took me to places I’d never thought I could ride to. There were hundreds of camping trips, hunting trips, and fishing trips. Each with a memory stored forever in my mind.
I paused to consider—did I ever thank him for all that he had done for me? If I had, it certainly was not enough. Did I ever tell him that I loved him? Sadly, I don’t think I ever did.
I concluded that was the purpose of the dream. I needed to give proper recognition to a great man. Vernon Christensen, you were a great father-in-law, a great father, grandfather, and a great friend. It was a privilege to be a part of your family. I love you.
{ 5 comments }