The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

There is a curve in the road from Randsburg going into Red Mountain, where a drunken and bloody wild woman with frenzied hair once ran down the hill to the road and flagged down our car. Without invitation, she wrenched open the back door and climbed into the back seat beside me, smelling of whisky, blood dripping from her elbows, and screaming crazily, "He's going to kill me! He's going to kill me!" Alarmed, I almost climbed out the other side. Daddy drove her down to the saloon, where she wanted to get out. --

But that's not my story. My story is the dream I still have repeatedly of going back to Red Mountain, around the curve in the road, trying to find my Nanny's house, my Aunt Mame's house, Bacopickle and John's house, and our house, just below the two rusty water tanks on the hill. It seems I know just where they should be. But they are not there. And Mr. Apple's store, where Vivian Rollins and I used to go for Eskimo Pies and Delaware Punch. She'd say, "Charge it," and they were magically ours, without our having to pay any money. Apple's store is still there, empty but for an old piano, rusty bedsprings, some old Coca Cola posters, and lots of dust. But the rest is all the stuff of dreams.