I’ve moved myself into my son’s old room, which has a nice thick rug on the floor for crawling upon (not allowed to put weight on my foot even if I could stand the pain), and a new futon in the corner upon which I now conduct my life. If I am laid up, I take up too much space with all my stuff around for Buck to be able to fit into the bed too. (sigh)
My new futon’s inaugural night was laced with nightmares of Strom Thurmond. No, I don’t know why either, especially since he’s dead. But I’d found, in the dream, a secret personal journal of his, and a secret batch of checkstubs, and I spent most of the dream running from him and hiding the stuff.
I would have thought that, on the night before my mother’s funeral mass (the 2nd and final, up here in Cincinnati), I would dream about her. But I don’t know which is scarier — dreaming of Thurmond or Mom. I guess Thurmond embodies all of my fears of the darker parts of the South, which I lived in for 4 years (I went to Vanderbilt). I grew sick of being made to feel guilty about my great-grandfather, who was in Meade’s army at Gettysburg, having helped to stop the South’s treasonous war, which they love to call the War of Northern Aggression, even though they started it.
I shall spend most of an hour in the tub getting ready — it’s quite a procedure to get yourself bathed when you can’t stick one leg of your into the water.
white pebble 