The dangerous possibilities of daydreaming

Thursday's warm weather left me longing for summer, which is why I kept hoping some meteorologists would predict snow for the weekend.

The streams of snow melt and tossed gloves were just a tease, I knew - winter is far from over - and the sooner it passed the better. There was work to be done, and spending the day looking out the window like a dreamy schoolboy in May was no way to spend company time.

During my drive home, thoughts of summer days as a young child weaved in and out of the tasks that I had yet to do: pay the cable bill - walking along a dirt road past towering corn stalks - stop at dry cleaner - listening to the bugs' concerto in early evening - attend library board meeting - finding shapes in the clouds - mail nephew's birthday present.

That jarred me back into focus. It was his birthday, and somehow the ever-re-sponsible uncle had forgotten to mail his present. I'd have to explain it in a phone call.

•••

Being 5, he didn't seem to mind that his present hadn't arrived on the appointed day. He was just excited to hear that one was coming.

But then there was a moment of silence, and he got to what really was im-portant: "When are you going to visit so we can go for a walk together?"

His voice reminded me of my brother's at that age.

•••

During school vacations, my brother and I spent most of our time ambling through the fields, indulging in discovery and play.

A typical summer's day began with awakening to the ascending whiteness of a new dawn; our internal clocks always seemed to sense the birth of a new morning, as if we were missing out now that darkness had fled the earth.

Sleep is sweet, that much I always will admit, but even to this day I rise with the first break of light to witness a world that others slumber through like hibernating bears: the gradation of colors from gray-blue to vermilion then to orange as the sun climbs the sky, the tuneful dialogue of songbirds gathering for their shared meals, the layers of warmth that fall over the bedroom with each passing moment.

Then, just as we heard the first languorous footsteps downstairs and the aromatic brew of coffee, my mother would call for us to awake.

We'd change quickly and hurry to the barn. It was not the work, however, that churned our eagerness but the creatures we'd meet on the way.

There was Jerry, the old tomcat who always sat by me as I mixed the calves' bottles of powdered milk and water, waiting for his dish when I was done.

Then there was Farley, our cow-herding dog who'd accompany us on the walks to and from the calf pens. And finally the calves themselves, an ever-rotating lot whom I could trace from birth to shed to pasture to barn, friends that we followed through life.

After washing the calf-slobber from our hands, we'd join our parents for breakfast, always a hearty affair of eggs and bacon, pancakes or waffles slathered in butter and maple syrup, cereal and toast, milk and juice; then coffee, always coffee, but only for the adults.

As my father drank his cup - he liked it hot and black - he'd outline his day, which often consisted of fieldwork or some task revolving around the cattle. Once he left, the day was ours to do with as we pleased.

•••

And what days they were!

We'd trail along the dirt road leading past the corn through a wilderness of green that rose daily, discovering deer prints left the night before in the soft soil, or the butterflies whose patterned wings rival in beauty any painting to come from an artist's palette.

Sometimes we'd stretch out in the field father left unseeded that year and watch the panorama of clouds reshape themselves across the brilliant blue sky.

All seemed far away: the thumbnail farmhouse, a distant tractor's drone, the tufts of clouds suspended on the horizon. Out there it was a whole new world, and if you fell into the prickle of extremely tall grass, a truly unique one as well: one in which the insects grew in size as they flicked past you, the buzz of their wings a high-pitched whine; in which the scent of loam, of plants decayed and of plants growing from such death, surrounded you; in which the minute taste of salt swathed across the inside of your mouth actually could be sensed now that you were not bombarded by a million other distractions competing with your own body, with your very being, for attention.

•••

Our father never approved of such ramblings. For him, they were fraught with dangerous possibilities; he often asked us what would happen if we were lying in the grass and run over by a tractor because the driver - meaning him - could not see us? The way his pupils sharpened in fear showed us this was a serious concern.

We never answered his almost certainly rhetorical question.

We honestly were too flattered to think of one.

•••

Must some of us be responsible so others can dream?

If talking of children, the answer is obvious. But what of adults? Is there any space for daydreaming in our harried lives?

Hanging up the phone, the weather reporter noted that more above-average temperatures were on the way.

It appears we don't have a choice in the matter.

(originally published Feb. 22, 2004)