I’ve had many fine experiences in life and frequently relive them in my dreams.
When I was a kid, a found penny or nickel bought great treasure at the candy store. A quarter brought undreamed-of riches. On the rare occasions when I had one I would be the most popular kid on the block.
In one of my sweet dreams I spot a coin. When I stoop to pick it up, "Wow!" I find another, then another, and another, the coins seem to be multiplying before my eyes. There seems to be no end to them. I swiftly scoop them up and fill my pockets as I know others will be coming along and want to share my treasure. Quarters, 50 cent pieces, and silver dollars. All seen through a young child’s eyes, back when a penny had value.
In another dream, I’m wandering a golf course looking for lost golf balls. I spot one and stoop to pick it up, then spot another. I stoop to pick up the second one and see another and on and on it goes. All of them like-new.
To appreciate the riches of a golf ball we have to go back to just after the war, when rubber products were very scarce. I used to roam the golf course looking for lost balls and became very good at it. I could sell a good ball for $2 whereas I would have to caddy three days to earn $2.
In those days, chocolate bars, Revels, popsicles, or fudgsicles were all a nickel. For $2 I could attend 10 movies and get a milkshake afterwards. For older folks, the same $2 would buy a large bag of groceries, 40 cups of coffee or a couple of steak dinners.
As a child I had an insatiable craving for fruit of all kinds and still do. I often dream that late in the season I wander into my neighbour’s yard to pick juicy plums and apples that have been missed and are still on the trees. These I pick and devour on the spot. Though we seem to have an agreement that I am welcome to this late fruit, I still feel guilty as pick and wonder if I’m trespassing.
As time has passed, these dreams have continued along with more ambitious ones — dreams in which I played sweet music on the clarinet, better than Benny Goodman; ran through tacklers on a football field and no one could lay a hand on me; and felt the sweet crack of my bat as I belted a pitch over the fence.
And then there were the dreams of romance...
Ron Buffie is a community correspondent for Transcona.