Mary, Mayhem, and the Rotten Husband: An Unusual Dream

April 14, 1993

Mary, Mayhem, and the Rotten Husband:
An Unusual Dream
By Nigel A. Renton


I.

I often have amusing dreams, and on several occasions I have awoken from a dream, and later fallen back to sleep, finding myself starting another chapter of the same story. In this dream I played the part of a rotten husband, had my car trashed as a result of chasing after a younger woman, and then – but let’s not spoil the ending.

My dreams remain very vivid in my memory immediately after I awake. Since this is usually in the middle of the night, it is rare for me to relate the dream (which would mean waking my wife) or to go upstairs and dictate the details while they are fresh in my mind. If I don’t do this, it is all too easy to forget the details. On this occasion they remained with me, and I felt impelled to record them. Barbara was out of town.

II.

It is often easy to relate my dreams to events in my waking life. Very often there are a number of different happenings which affect my dreams. It is as if I take a little piece from many different parts of my waking life, including plays, movies, and the TV screen, and put them into a kaleidoscope. Then my brain shakes them all up while I sleep, and turns them out as marvelously complex and fascinating dreams.

There also seems to be some correlation between my having eaten cheese and having vivid dreams. I was told about this as a child, but this “old wives’ tale” may have some basis in fact. On the evening of April 13/14, 1993, I had liberally sprinkled a large salad with parmesan, before realizing that a similar amount would improve the flavor of the left-over spaghetti, which was the main course of my supper.

I had been talking to or thinking of women all day, but not with “evil thoughts”. That morning, I had had an intense conversation with AL. I had then arranged with my young friend from church, MB, to be my guest at the forthcoming DRA theater evening. I had also had good reasons to think about JK and MS, young women friends, and of RC and KL, women priests.

I had later been to the doctor, (the only man in this account), where there had been talk about a relatively minor operation for the removal of toenails, deferred until a possible future date: and of possible future urethral or prostate surgery. I had then gone up to a blood-drawing station, only to find that it was closed for the afternoon, and I would need to return the following morning.
During the evening, I had a phone conversation with Barbara in Colorado, where I plan to join her for the coming weekend. The call was more in the nature of passing on messages than a lovers’ chat. I should add that Barbara had worn a white blouse and black pants when I last saw her.

We also discussed whether Barbara would take Kate Learson to Rocky Mountain National Park on the day of my arrival, or whether we should spend part of my precious few hours in Colorado amid those glorious snow-capped peaks. (Kate is the daughter of the former chairman of IBM, and I vividly remembered how we had been drawn to each other’s company at the outset of the trip Barbara and I made to the Antarctic. Kate was unaccompanied: I remembered how I had come to terms with the realization that to maintain this friendship it was important that she and Barbara becomes friends, which they did very easily, while I worked through my feelings about this glamorous and intelligent younger woman who had found me a good companion. At the time, Kate had confided in me, and later to us both, her complex feelings about her lover, who subsequently became her husband. John won’t be with Kate in Colorado, so the three of us will be reunited, as we were for a couple of delightful days in New England last fall.)

On my rides to and from the office and for part of the evening, I had been listening to a wonderful recorded book about the Borgias, and the passionate involvement of male clergy, of all ranks and including the Pope, in licentious affairs, sometimes involving incest. A few days before, I had re-viewed the scene where Orson Welles as Citizen Kane trashes his mistress’s room in a violent rage.l

Then, after supper, I had watched Steel Magnolias, a movie I had recorded earlier. The main theme concerns a young woman (Julia Roberts), as a severe diabetic who rejects the advice of doctors and her own mother to avoid becoming pregnant. She wants to have her own child, and gives birth to the son and heir ardently sought by her husband. As a result of this, she had kidney failure and in due course, the kidney transplant from her own mother is rejected, and she dies. The movie is much more about middle-class white society in a small town in Louisiana, not too far from Shreveport, than it is about death, which comes at the end of the movie. It is generally upbeat and funny, and also stars Sally Field, Shirley MacLaine, Olympia Dukakis, and Darryl Hannah. These are the strong Southern women of the title, each very different, involved to some extent with men who are felonious, foolish, out of work, or pathetic. This affected me, because the mother of my own sons had also been a severe diabetic. We were not warned to avoid having children because of potential danger to a diabetic mother. Had I unwittingly put Lola into a life-threatening situation – twice? Had she deliberately – or unwittingly – downplayed the dangers to her own health?

Then, somewhere on the news, I saw a picture of a car that had been broken into, with bits of window glass on the floor. And so, to my dream …


to be continued in next week's post ...

National anthems

When I was at the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, during WWII, I used to hear the band play a national anthem every weekday morning, as we assembled for the regular morning assembly (known as "Divisions") on the parade ground. We played the anthems of our allies, even if some of the nations were occupied by German forces. After Pearl Harbor, we added "The Star Spangled Banner". I liked the tune, although the words were hard to sing - not a requirement at Divisions.

In recent times, there have been suggestions that we should change our National Anthem, and that would be fine by me, but I should be surprised if it happens during the remaining years of my lifetime. The US Senate is far too busy filibustering to take up such a controversial topic.

What I most abhor is the "rendition" of our "Anthem" by pop singers, who give it their own "interpretation". I was heartened when a friend sent me an email, attaching a link to an excellent "straight" version, by the assembled cadet choirs of the Navy, Army, Air Force, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard.

I think you will like the recording, made at the start of a professional football game. It is here:




I'll admit that what is left of my taste for triumphalism in the Armed Services was stirred by this performance.

Until towards the end, when that terrible bane of premature cheering began. I just wish that stadium crowds would allow the singers to finish the anthem, before starting to applaud.

Barbara and I attended another concert by the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra last night. It was an all-Mozart program, and the civilized audience avoided applauding the individual movements, and allowed the conductor a second or two of respite, as he brought Symphony #41 ("Jupiter") to its rapturous conclusion. Happily, no premature applause marred our appreciative enjoyment.

Mangled French

Despite the heading, let's start with German.

Americans can't do umlauts, so today I read that the prominent Presbyterian theologian Frederick Buechner pronounces his name "Beekner". That triggered thoughts of American pronunciation of some other languages, especially French.

In my early days, I didn't care much about French, although I studied it at my British-style prep school (typically age 8 through 13). I continued to study it without enthusiasm, when I moved to the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, where Naval training shared class time with a general secondary school curriculum. We were "streamed" for academic subjects into four groups, according to our ability. I was always placed in the "A" group--with one exception. At the start of one term, I was initially placed in the "B" group for French, but one of the masters (teachers) who taught French was either called up, or possibly suffered a long-term disability. The classes were reduced from four to three, and I found myself back in group A. That seemed to communicate a message! From that day forward, I have learned to appreciate French, and I can still speak enough to find my way around France.

The secret for English speakers in France is to start to communicate in French; if the person to whom you are speaking has better English than French, she or he will soon switch languages.

Particularly in California, French is not widely spoken or understood, because we have an unofficial "second language": Spanish. The French that I see and hear is mangled in several ways:

1. There are certain sounds, common in French, which Californians cannot pronounce. A particularly egregious example is the feminine of masseur. This is pronounced "massoose", instead of something like "masserz".

2. Usage. The main course (and this is true generally in the US) is called an entree. (This is usually pronounced with an approximation of correctness, as "ontray".) As the meaning of the word ("entry") suggests, an entrée is the course preceding the main course.

3. Pronunciation. Good pronunciation of French requires care with the stress. The phrase "Gay Paree" illustrates this point. Stress in French requires a light and delicate touch, not a heavy emphasis on the final syllable.

What does one do when using French words in California? If I pronounce the words correctly, I risk being identified as the linguistic snob I am. To "dumb down" my French risks being considered an ignoramus by those who know better. In defense of my amour propre, I have developed a middle way.

Perhaps this just makes me sound like an ignorant snob...


P.S. To my readers: I am going to mark a time close to my anniversary of blogging, by asking Jane to copy and publish, in two long(ish) episodes, something I wrote in 1993. Normal blogging service will be resumed thereafter..

Clean Plate league

We recently bought dinner for two of our best friends. Let's call them "Bill" and "Mary". The food at the restaurant was excellent, but Bill left a little on his plate. Mary, Barbara, and I did everything short of picking up the plates and licking them. We used some of the excellent bread to mop up the last drops of superb sauce.

Later, Mary told me that Bill had been brought up in the US always to leave some food on the plate. She had given up trying to change that.

I told Mary that I had heard an expression "leave something on your plate for Lady Manners" when I lived in England. The justification (if you can call it that) given to me was that if you ate everything on the plate, the hostess might feel that she had not fed you enough. I told Mary that I thought that this was ridiculous, and she agreed.

An omnivore, I have always been a member of the "clean plate league", which sometimes causes some dismay to Barbara - not because I want to eat everything, but because I am so slow about eating such food as cracked crab.

Those of us who lived in the UK during WW II knew that it was unpatriotic to waste food. German submarines sank many ships bringing food to the British Isles. Many hundreds of merchant seamen lost their lives as a result.

Americans waste a lot of food. I was incensed at a recent question in a survey, asking which of the following leftover foods from a holiday meal did we throw away: Turkey, Dressing, Mashed Potatoes, Pumpkin, or Cranberry Sauce? There was no option for "None of the above".

We don't throw food away at our house. Leftovers are refrigerated and eaten within a few days.

WW II is long over, but I still consider wasting food to be sinful.

Turn off that light!

Seventy years ago, in wartime Britain, one might hear those words, probably from an Air Raid Warden, during the blackout. The words go through my mind unspoken these days for another reason. Well, yes, I do understand that we as a nation need to save energy, but that's not my main concern. It's not just because I pay our electricity bill, although that is certainly a consideration. It is because I abhor waste in any form.

Watching a British TV show on a local PBS channel, I recently learned the meaning of OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder). Yeah, there's a touch of this in my personality, but my limited vision gives me an excuse: I do believe there should be "a place for everything and everything in its place"--especially in the kitchen, to help me make our daily breakfast.

But there's more to it than that. I almost always try to be generous with others, but I am "economical" with myself--some would say "cheap" or even "miserly". I remember being offended when a very good friend--a fellow native of the UK--pulled out a handful of tissues--maybe 6--when one would have done. I long ago learned that one doesn't need toothpaste to brush one's teeth. But mint or other pleasant flavor makes the chore more agreeable, so I do still use toothpaste. All the illustrations in the advertisements show an inch or more of toothpaste: i use about a quarter of an inch.

A while back, when there was a shortage of water in much of California, and it became patriotic to limit usage of this precious resource. Barbara even went so far to collect dishwater, etc., in a large bucket, which she would take outside to sprinkle on flowerbeds.
Wit her cooperation, I instituted a "limited flush" routine ("Yellow is mellow, but brown goes down" was my mantra).

Barbara replaced two perfectly good toilets with "low flow" models, at significant expense, but in a couple of hundred years or so, if our 1909 house is still standing, future inhabitants may have recovered the cost....

With all the rain this year, months ago the restrictions on use of water were lifted, but I cling to my routine. (After all, limiting the use of water is still environmentally desirable--and we save a little money, too!)

I am at my chintziest with food. Although my relatively affluent parents didn't suffer deprivation in the Depression, my father's business suffered, and millions of Brits lost their jobs, just as in the USA. When WWll began, it was a sin to waste food. I still feel that way. When no-one is looking, I even eat the edible rind on cheeses and stale bread. We do our best to keep milk from going sour, but on the rare occasions (once a year?) that this happens, I usually have a cup of coffee in which the milk has curdled before the rest id discarded. Many years ago, I tried (with limited success) to make cheese when half a quart carton went sour.

Do I suffer from OCD? I leave it to my readers to decide.

 

Widow's pension

I recently read somewhere about elderly couples living together as a married couple, without the benefit of actually being married. The article suggested that they stayed unmarried because of "dire tax consequences", if they actually tied the knot.

In at least most cases, the writer had it wrong, usually it is advantageous to be married as far as taxes are concerned. I believe it is even possible in some jurisdictions to file joint returns when the folk involved are members of a domestic partnership or registered civil union.

No, when people say "they can't get married", they usually mean that they have chosen not to get married, because of financial considerations. Usually, this is because one of them is receiving a "widow's pension". I am certainly not going to sit in judgment over those who make that choice, in the light of current practice. However, I do think we should look at what is behind the reluctance to get married. In times past, the man was usually the principal, if not the only, breadwinner. The expectation of life of adult males was shorter than that of females. A considerate society felt it was appropriate to provide some support for impecunious widows. However, many widows remarried, and of course they no longer needed a widow's pension. So the employer, trade union, or even the state, could save the money.

I consider this a very dated concept. Men and women are both eligible for their own Social Security pensions. Admittedly, many of those women now receiving Social Security benefits spent years as homemakers, or worked in low-paying jobs; as a consequence, their benefits are often relatively small. But "times they are a-changing", and I believe that any pensions paid to women (or to men!) after the death of a spouse should continue until the survivor's death, whether or not the survivor remarries. Also, the importance of pensions for survivors has diminished, and in the present state of the economy, we may find that they are gradually abolished by most employers.

Consent forms

A few weeks ago, I underwent a relatively minor outpatient procedure at Kaiser's Richmond medical center. The usual precautions were taken: my blood pressure and pulse before and after the procedure, and my name was written on a tape attached to my wrist - presumably in case something unexpected occurred and I had to be rushed off to the hospital's operating room.

All this I understand, but this particular procedure required me to lie supine on a table, and have straps secured around my calves - presumably in case I tried to escape!

After I was made quite comfortable, with pillows under my head and under my knees, a complicated document was stuck under my nose, and I was asked to sign a consent form. I did this quite cheerfully, being an obedient patient, but it got me thinking. It occurred to me that if a patient were unhappy with the result of the procedure, any competent attorney could easily discredit this so-called "consent form". In my mind's eye, I saw myself as a famous plaintiff's attorney, doing my best Walter Mitty act. (If that means nothing to you, ask an older person who can remember Danny Kaye's wonderful 1939 performance in "The Secret Life of Water Mitty".)

My dermatologist had detected a suspicious spot on my nose, which wouldn't heal. She had called for a biopsy, which indicated that it was some form of skin cancer. Hence the procedure. It was a complex, painstaking, and meticulous business, lasting a full hour, but all is well, and the stitches were taken out early the following week.

It would be wise for those instructing hospital personnel to train them to obtain these consent forms before the patient arrives at the operating table .Perhaps it would also be wise to have a witness sign, in case the surgery ever becomes part of a lawsuit. Such a witness could testify, if necessary, that the patient was not under duress to sign.