Thursday, July 20, 2017


September 4, 2014
      I had a dream about Ed.  He was having an affair with Dottie Remick, who was as pretty and flirtatious as ever.  I was not pleased. The thought going through my mind was: what’s sauce for the gander.  Suddenly my dream self, aware that I was getting on in years, began calculating exactly how old I currently was and what age bracket my illicit gander should occupy. 
      Starting with the year of my birth, 1921, my fingers began to count the decades, 1931, 41, 51, 61, 71, 81, 91 – in 1991 arriving at 70 years.  Two decades further along landed me in a bracket that was clearly way too old for romance.  At that point my eyes opened to the ceiling of my Linden Ponds bedroom, where the fireand dream extinguisher—is located.  
     What had triggered this absurd scenario?   It must have been the Netflix series I started watching last night,  Last Tango in Halifax, a comedy about would-be childhood sweethearts who are reunited after 60 years.  I loved it, e-mailed a recommendation to my aging children, and retired to dream the impossible dream. . . . 

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