All through our lives we have dreams of what our future will bring. We work hard to make these dreams a reality.

 

As we enter our senior years, our desire to have a full and complete life remains strong. This becomes clear in . . .

 

 

Our Little Book Of Dreams

 

     I looked out the living room window of my tiny cottage on Wisdom Way in the Whispering Willow Glenn Retirement Community. The name of the street was quite appropriate. I’d been a professor at Jensen and Pierce College for thirty-five years. I taught literature, most of which focused on books written the first part of the twentieth century. It was a sunny day and I hadn’t given much thought to how I’d spend my time. As my mind drifted, the phone rang startling me out of my stupor. I reached over and picked it up off the coffee table. Pressing the talk button, I muttered, “Hello.”

     “Hi Jenny,” Miranda’s voice sung out.

     “God, you sound like you got up on the right side of the bed this morning, Miranda.”

     “It’s a beautiful Tuesday, girl. And I’ve got a great idea I want to share with you.”

     “Okay, I’m listening.”

     “Well, remember what you said last month about wanting something new to do—something that would challenge you and lift you out of your miserable state of boredom?”

     “Uh, I don’t think I phrased it exactly that way. But go on.”

     “How about starting a book club?”

     “A book club!” I shouted. “That’s supposed to lift my spirits? My whole life was a book club. Why on earth would I want to be a part of another one of those?”

     “Calm down, lady. Give me a chance to explain my idea to you. Then, if you don’t like it, you can tell me to stick it where the ‘sun don’t shine.’ But first, hear me out.”

     “All right. I apologize for my response. Maybe I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Go ahead. I’m paying attention now.”

     “Good. Focus on what I have to say, for I’m going to turn your world on its ear.”

     “Enough with the chatter, Miranda. Just spit it out already.”

     “Well, you know how we’ve confided in each other about how our lives haven’t turned out exactly the way we would have liked them to after we retired.”

     “Yes, but what does that have to do with a book club?” The line went silent and then, as if a bomb had exploded, Miranda, gushed . . .

     “We write one!”

     “Just you and me?”

     “No. I thought Janis and Libby might find this exciting, too.”

     “Exciting? So far I’m not excited. So how are you going to get them interested? And you haven’t even told me what this marvelous book is supposed to be about.”

     “I’ll set up a club meeting for Thursday evening at my house at 7:30 pm. Just be there.”

     “Okay. But this better knock my socks off. I have better things to do.”

     “Yeah, like brush your teeth before you go to bed—alone. See you Thursday, girl.”

     Before I could respond, she hung up. My enthusiasm for literature, reading or writing, has waned since I retired ten years ago at age sixty-four. So whatever Miranda has in mind better be good.

     Thursday was a bleak day—no rain, but overcast. I couldn’t get my act together, so I just wandered around the house looking at what needed to be done and then did nothing. Finally, around five, I scrambled some eggs and made some toast. I sat, somewhat forlorn, at the kitchen table hoping tonight would lift my spirits.

     I finished eating, threw on my Sacramento Kings’ sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, and headed out the door to Miranda’s house. Miranda lived two blocks from me. She had the same model cottage as I did, but the floor plan was reversed. I often headed toward the bathroom and ended up in the kitchen. So I just used the sink to go.

     Arriving at her house, I rang the doorbell. As it opened, I saw Miranda standing there with an impish grin on her face. “Hi, girl. You look a sight.”

     “You look great, too. Nice wool sweater. Looks like the moths had a ball remodeling it.”

     “Huh?”

     She bent her head down and scanned the sweater’s front. She looked confused.

     “I don’t see anything,” she gasped. Then a light bulb went on and she giggled, ”You’re just kidding, aren’t you? Come on. Let’s go into the living room. Janis and Libby are already here.”

     As we turned the corner, Libby shouted, “Well look at you—the book lady.”

     “Hello, Libby, Janis.”

     “Hi, Jenny. This evening’s going to be great fun,” Janis chanted.

     “You know something I don’t?” I quipped.

     “Just that we’re going to write a book. Sounds like a wonderful idea. Doesn’t it?” Libby asked.

     “I don’t know. Depends on the kind of book. So Miranda, this was your idea.”

     Miranda stood there staring at us. Then she spun around and left the room. The three of us were dumfounded.

     “What do we do now?” Janis queried.

     Before I could respond, Miranda returned carrying a plastic shopping bag. “Okay. Jenny sit down on the couch with the girls so we can get started.”

     “Get started? What are we going to get started with?”

     “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, woman. You’ll see in just a minute.”

     I sat down and waited with baited breath for the unveiling of what was in the bag. Miranda sat on the leather recliner across from the couch and looked at us, with a smirk on her face.

     “Okay, Miranda, just show us what you have in the bag already,” Libby gushed.

     Miranda opened the bag and reached in. Then she looked up without taking anything out.

     “I’m sixty-seven years old, Miranda. And I’m getting older by the minute. You said this was a book club meeting. If the books are in the bag, just take them out already,” Janis pleaded, frustrated by Miranda’s delaying the inevitable.

     Miranda chuckled. “What would you like me to pull out of the bag?”

     “You’re trying my patience, Miranda. Let’s get this over with,” I moaned.

     “Yes, Libby, you have an answer to my question?”

     I turned and saw Libby anxiously waving her hand. She seemed ready to explode. And then . . .

     “A man,” she screamed. “We’re all single. We all need a man in our lives—a gorgeous hunk.”

     Janis, sounding bewildered, whimpered, “But the bag’s too small.”

     That seemed to reduce our anxiety level, as we all burst out in laughter. “All right, Miranda, we’re ready,” I ordered.

     “Yes, ma’am, your majesty—the ‘Queen of Bookdom,’” she replied. “I think we are ready.”

     Miranda was a psychologist in her former life and I guess this game she was playing did relieve the tension and prepare us for whatever mystery lurked inside the bag. Janis, Libby, and I were now all leaning forward peering at Miranda in anticipation of a handsomely muscled man slithering out of the bag dressed only in a thong.

     “Okay, ladies, sit back, so you don’t fall off the couch when I turn your world upside down. Now let’s begin.”

     She reached into the bag and pulled out a book the size of a typical hardback novel. Holding it up so all of us on the couch could see the title, Our Little Book of Dreams, she opened it to the first page. There, a man in a skimpy bathing suit smiled at us. Well not a man, but a picture of a man.

     “My god!” Libby yelled. “It’s Jack Watterman. He’s almost eighty. But he looks pretty good. I could . . .”

     Before she completed her sentence, Miranda turned the page displaying a second photo of a scantily clad gentleman. “Well, what do you think, girls?”

     There was silence in the room—absolute quiet. Then Janis gasped, “He’s mine. Carlos Garcia. I’ve always wanted him. Look at those abs. What a six-pack! And he’s only seventy-three. I’d die for him.”

     “You’re going to die anyway, so it might as well be for him,” I kidded.

     “”The next one’s for you, Jenny. You’ve had your eye on him ever since he moved into our community two years ago.”

     “You don’t mean, Tom Thame?”

     “Oh, yes I do,” Miranda stated, as she flipped the page to his picture. This good-looking guy, dressed in almost nothing, popped out at us.

     “But how did you know? Was it that obvious?”

     Miranda directed a chorus of three, as they sang, “Yessssssssss.”

     “Well, what about your gent, Miranda? Come on now. Who is he?” I inquired in a mischievous tone.

     Miranda blushed. You’re not going to believe this. She hesitated a moment before putting the top of the page between her fingers and, in slow motion, revealed the next page. She held it up so the three of us on the couch had a full view of a naked . . .

     “Oh, my,” sighed Libby.

     “Well! I never would have guessed,” exclaimed Janis.

     And me. I was at a loss for words. I just sat there with my eyes wide open and tried to catch my breath. Our secret desires exposed, we had indeed produced, if not written, Our Little Book of Dreams.

 

 

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