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In the wee hours this morning I found myself fighting to stay asleep, to continue a dream I didn't want to wake from. But as it is with these things, my body would have none of it, and I was extracted from my fantasy despite my best efforts.

I dream a lot, and my dreams speak to me. But it isn't often I get a message like this.

I dreamt I was a character who was a hybrid between myself and Jack from the story Brokeback Mountain. I was taller, lankier than my actual self, with blended features both physically and emotionally. I was dressed in a dark brown, comfortably weathered cowboy hat, boots, a blue and white plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, faded wranglers and a worn leather belt with a big buckle.

I was floating in a river on a black inner tube, fully dressed. This river was lazy and murky and looked much like the Guadalupe. It flowed through forest and town, through places unknown to me. I remember the sky was dark and gloomy, but I could see. The time was neither night nor day, neither dawn nor dusk, but rather some perpetual, oppressive twilight.

I drifted silently down the river through dark forest, past farms and ranches, past suburban tract-house developments and back through the dark forest. I could see but drifted unseen. I passed one ranch where a fit, strong young cowboy was roping horses. He was completely naked but for his hat and roping gear. He roped a horse by the tail and dragged it to the ground. It lay panting and sweating in the dust, and the cowboy jumped off his horse and strode proudly around it, the glow of his lilly-white skin cutting through the dust that hung in the air.

"You're not a real cowboy!," I scoffed. "A real cowboy would never rope a horse by the tail!"

Other cowboys, fully dressed, gathered around to congratulate him on his accomplishment, seemingly unaware of his state of undress. My protests went unheard, and I was envious of his beauty and success. I drifted on past other homes and ranches and cowboys, past people walking dogs and having backyard barbecues, and no one took any notice of me at all.

Eventually I emerged from a section of dark forest and I drifted by a small house siting near the bank of the river. A familiar looking woman with a ghostly white face and thin red lips was standing in the back yard. As I passed she looked at me and asked with a soft country drawl, "Where ya goin', cowboy?"

"I don't know. I'm just waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"I don't know."

"Well why don't you come on 'round the house while you're waitin'. I've got some wild stallions need ridin.' They're mostly gentle now. Mostly," she winked and turned away.

I hauled myself out of the river and walked around the front of the small ranch house. There was a dirt drive with a gate across it, which I passed through to get into the back yard. Lights were on inside the house, so I peeked in. To my shock, Memaw was standing in the window looking out at me. She was dressed very smart in a suit and looked healthy and strong. Behind her I could see happy people eating at a long table, but I couldn't see their faces. It looked so comfortable and inviting, but I didn't want to join them.

Memaw looked at me with a stern but concerned look, then walked away from the window.

The pale faced woman pulled an old van into the driveway and up to the gate. I ran to open it, and she drove in. Always she had this seductive smile on her face when she looked at me. It kinda weirded me out.

A moment later Memaw was standing next to me. "She's a washed up old celebrity," Memaw said to me of the pale faced woman. "She's got her eye on you, but you just mind your business and let me deal with her."

"Yes ma'am," I said, and she vanished again.

I spent hours riding the pale faced woman's wild stallions. I rode those broncs like nobody's business. They were beautiful and wild indeed - mostly shades of black and dark brown, with shiny coats, flowing manes and muscled bodies. They were full of the Sprit of the West - wild, magical, untamable. One could put their bodies in a corral, but one could never cage their spirit.

At first I was afraid, but in those moments when I sat atop the first wild horse, the cycle of life and death became clear to me in a way it had never before been. Death was as beautiful and precious as life, for they were two sides of the same coin. The Creator who had given the gift of life had also given the gift of death. They were not the beginning and the end, but rather doorways to different states of being. To waste a moment fearing death was to squander a moment of life. And so, fearlessly, I gave myself completely to the moment and for the first time lived my life to the fullest. I truly felt what it meant to be alive.

When all the horses had been tired out and had no fight left in them, I dropped to my feet and I leaned against the rail, dusty and exhausted, bruised and happy. The pale faced woman approached me. "I noticed you had a particular interest in that wild one there," she said, pointing to a yellow dun with an exceptionally free spirit.

"Yes ma'am," I said, looking into that horses eyes. I'd indeed made a connection with that one. We'd found something, some common ground, something in our souls I can't put to words. He was mine and I was his, and that's all I could articulate.

"Well," said the pale faced woman, "you'd better get him ready. I suspect it's a long journey home."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He's yours. You gotta take him with you. When soulmates meet nothing can part them. That's how God made it, see."

"But have no place to ride or keep him! I don't even own a..."

A voice from behind interrupted, "What he meant was that he'd be delighted to take that horse." I turned and Memaw was standing there. "Now you go get that horse ready to take home with you," she said to me.

"But Memaw I don't have..."

"Do it now and don't back talk me," she said. "Go on."

"Yes ma'am," I said and walked to get the horse. Later Memaw was next to me again. "Memaw, you know I don't own anything but the shirt on my back. You know I'd love nothing more than to have a ranch and take this horse, but..."

"But nothing," she interrupted. "You've got a ranch. All of the arrangements have been made."

Her face softened. She leaned in, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, "That's why Memaw is here. I'm always here looking out for you. Now you saddle up that horse and ride home to that beautiful ranch in the mountains just like you always dreamed. Don't ever look back, don't have any regrets. I love you." And with that, she disappeared.

I started to wake up then, but as the dream faded I could see from the back of my yellow dun a vast ranch in a green valley ringed by forested, snow-capped mountains. There was an elk herd grazing by a clear, cold stream. A small cabin sat off in the distance, with warm yellow windows and a thin stream of smoke coming from the chimney. There was no human development for as far as I could see in any direction. There was no traffic, no strip malls, no pollution, no greedy corporations and no office cubicles. There were no clocks. It was just me and my horse, clear blue skies and a wild, unspoiled wilderness. The whole thing hummed to the timeless cycles of the seasons, was beautiful for its own sake, and answered to no one but God. It was heaven, and I was home.

A Stroll Down Memory Lane via Streetview

This evening I Google Street Viewed some of my childhood haunts. It's just plain weird.

I virtually "stood" in front of the house I grew up in. My entire world revolved around those woods, those narrow streets. I "toured" the neighborhood and emotions, memories came flooding back. I'd been back numerous times in my adult life. My parents moved out of the house probably ten years ago now, but Memaw and Pawpaw lived just one street over. Pawpaw died a few years after my parents moved away and Memaw died about 2 years ago, which was the last time I was in the neighborhood. It wasn't freaky to see my old neighborhood so much as it was freaky to see it on Google. I mean when I grew up, rotary phones and a microwave were the most technologically advanced things we owned. I didn't know the first thing about computers, and a thing such as the internet was completely unfathomable. I'm having trouble connecting Google and Huffman, Texas in my mind.

The real trouble came when I took a virtual tour of Memaw and Pawpaw's old lake house. That's what we called it, "the lake house." It was basically a barn nestled among thick forest on the shore of a small slough of Lake Livingston. ("Slough" is pronounced like "cow," but my family to this day pronounces it like "slew." At any rate, a slough is a swampy area with a lot of trees.) The lake house was accessible only by a really fun (to a kid) single lane dirt road full of pot holes that meandered through some pretty impressive hills. When Memaw and Pawpaw bought the place, they were among the very first. Except for an occasional cabin or travel trailer, it was all woods. Miles and miles of thick woods. They didn't live there, it was just a getaway place for the family. It was a three room barn: downstairs was just a big room with Memaw and Pawpaw's bed, an expandable table with chairs, a stove, refrigerator and some kitchen cabinets, and the bathroom (the second of the three rooms.) The upstairs was just a wide open space with storage nooks around the perimeter for fishing tackle, tools, the hammock, marshmallow roasting implements, boat anchors, life jackets and other wonderful things. There were also three beds up there.

The lake house, painted barn red, had power and running water, but no air conditioning, no heat, no phone and no television. It was bare bones - literally a glorified barn, minimally intrusive to the land, and surrounded by woods. It was heaven. Seriously, when I was a kid there was no happier place on earth than Memaw and Pawpaw's lake house. We normally went for a week at a time, and rarely did we go when Memaw and Pawpaw weren't also up. And the absolute best time was when my dad's sister and her family joined us as well. Actually, that's not true. The absolute best times were when my dad's sister's family and Memaw's brother's large family, who owned a lot with no permanent buildings on the other side of the slough, were also up. In the very best of times, it would be Mom and dad and my brother Daniel, Aunt Kiku (that's Karen Sue to those of you who don't speak five year old), Uncle Kenneth, baby cousin Holly, Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Men (don't know where that nickname came from), Gary and Corinne, little cousin Ricky, Jan and Steve Earl, Grandaddy, Memaw and Pawpaw, and a lot of other kids that would be born into the family (I'm the eldest of all the kids and grandkids.) Man those were the good old days. What I wouldn't give for the chance to have just one day to go back and see everyone again.

I remember it was so hot up there in the summer, but when the sun went down it felt perfect to me. I remember many a hot afternoon sitting on a rotten old pier under some massive shade trees, watching my cork sit there in that murky water. I remember the ducks and the alligators that would swim by, and the thousands of turtles and dragonflies, frogs, crawfish, snakes, raccoons and birds. I remember multitudes of those iridescent little sunfishes - the Bluegill, the Longear, the Readear, the Warmouth - fishes whose names I didn't know but whose patterns and striking colors never ceased to amaze me. I'd catch them on meal worms and grasshoppers, always careful to remove the hook and quickly, gently put them back into their watery home.

I remember the bats that came out at dusk, and how I used to throw rocks not at them but in front of them to watch them dive and swoop at what they clearly thought were tasty insects in a nose dive. I remember how excited mom would get when she caught a crappie while fishing off the pier with minnows. I remember my dad cleaning dozens and dozens of fish from a successful day out in the boat. I remember the smell of the fish and the smell of the water and the smell of the dirt and the forest. I remember hunting for turtle shells among the tall weeds in the marshy recesses - and finding them. I've still got three perfect specimens in my home office. I remember how those wriggling worms and minnows felt in my hands. I remember the cool splash of the water on a scorching hot day.

I remember the day a kid drown just a few hundred yards away from where I was fishing.

I remember a man who used to play guitar somewhere on the other side of the slough. I could never see him, but I remember his music. I remember waking at 5AM to the smell of Memaw's biscuits, coffee and bacon. I remember the time I was walking alone in the woods and saw a pure white squirrel. I remember when that rickety old pier finally gave way, and mom fell through it. I remember the huge bruises it left on her legs. I remember how I protested fiercely when the adults decided it was time to replace that old pier with a new one. I remember digging up enormous freshwater mussels from the shore. I remember the wonderful, incessant buzzing of cicadas in the hot still air. I remember Memaw's old cane pole - the perfect size for a grandmother or a grandson, and that little red cork. I remember the two of us sitting by the water watching a dragonfly balance on the tip of the pole while she sang "Over in the Meadow" to me.

I remember eating cornmeal-battered fried fish we had caught that same day. I remember how Memaw loved eating fried fish eggs. I remember the biggest fish I ever caught. It was a largemouth bass. It was so big, mom and dad had it stuffed and it hung on my bedroom wall for years. I remember Pawpaw's big old red canoe - hand made of solid wood, and how I loved paddling around the swampiest, quietest parts of the slough. I was always amazed at how many mysterious and beautiful creatures lived there among the mosses and the lily pads.

I remember this and a thousand more things, all of which overwhelmed me as Google Street View took me back. Even the old lake house has been found by Google. I just can't believe it. Of course it bears little resemblance to the heavenly playground I knew as a child. Most of the roads are paved and most of the trees are gone. The few old cabins have been replaced by the many brick houses packed wall to wall. Woods have been replaced with St. Augustine grass and chain link fences. The natural shorelines have all been bulkheaded. There are no more swampy recesses for giant old red ear sliders to haul out and die in peace.

And as for the old lake house itself? It's now painted white, has a concrete driveway, and is almost completely obscured by an enormous metal carport. There's a pre-fab house behind it, right where we used to roast marshmallows over the campfire. There's a storage shed where the hammock used to hang between two oak trees, now long gone. The leaf litter where, as a child I invariably got thorns, burrs, gumballs and every other sharp local plant material stuck in my bare feet at least once every visit, is now a uniform carpet of green grass in the open sunlight.

Dusty tree covered roads that at one time were visited only by the occasional beat up old pickup are now lined with mailboxes and sporty, shiny little SUV's. Memaw's lake house now has a bricked three car garage with a concrete driveway sitting next to it. I can't help but wonder at the process of it all. I imagine it goes something like this:

A suburban couple drives out looking for a place to "get away from it all." How perfect honey! Look at all the trees and wildlife. And there's the lake! Won't this make the perfect hideaway? So they buy a lot, cut down the trees and pour a slab. They immediately set out to build a bulkhead to keep their new property from washing away, and of course they'll need a dock and a boat lift for the new boat. The house will, of course, need air conditioning, telephone, television, washer and dryer, dishwasher and all those other things that make life grand. The lot will, of course, need to be planted in carpet grass and fertilized and watered. They'll need a paved driveway, a garage for the SUV, a storage shed for the lawnmower and all of the things they can't stuff into their storage shed back home in the 'burbs. The whole thing will need a fence to keep other people out and Mitzie and Fritzie the Pomeranians in, and darn it let's complain until these roads get paved. Oh and then let's tell our best friends about this wonderful place so they too can come up and buy property and build houses because won't it be just so much fun to have our neighbors up for a good 'ol time out "away from it all?" Ah yes. And then a few years go by and they look around and think darnit, they really need a place away from all these houses and people - you know, some place with woods and wildlife where they can truly get away from it all.

And that, I think, is how Memaw's extremely modest little lake house, my childhood paradise which they sold after I moved off to college, came to look like any other suburban shit hole.

Yes, I'm bitter about it.

For the life of me I can't understand why people always need to "improve" everything. Is no one ever satisfied? Is nothing sacred? Do so few of us really understand that it isn't air conditioning and television and excess that bring fulfillment and joy into our lives? What exactly is appealing about a wooded lake retreat out in nature if the first thing you feel compelled to do is cut down the woods, pave the roads, wall off the shore, drive off the wildlife and build a replica of your Wal-Mart house back home? You're going drive to the lake house to watch TV and eat microwave dinners in the air conditioning? What am I missing here?

I toured the rest of the streets in the area and, I'm happy to report, there are still a fair number of streets that are virtually unchanged. There are still large tracts of woods and rustic old cabins and houses that look the same today as I remember them 30 years ago. There are even some streets that still can't honestly be called "paved." Even the dead end road where a six year old Bubba (me), mom and Aunt Kiku, while out for a walk one summer afternoon, encountered that "giant" garter snake which forced them to turn around as I fought tooth and nail to get a closer look, is still there, is still dirt, and is still surrounded by trees. And knowing that, I think I might be able to sleep peacefully tonight after all.

Goodnight Memaw, wherever you are. Thank you for everything.

Time

Memaw died a few months back. I still haven't removed her from my address book. I see her name in there from time to time and I always pause for just a moment and remember that she's really gone.

This week I took a few days off work and my best friend from high school came to visit. Until a few months ago, I hadn't seen or spoken with her in about twelve years. It was a little strange reconnecting, but I have to say I found it extremely comfortable and easy, as if no time had passed at all. Sometimes after a good laugh an easy lull would settle between us. I'd look at her, smile, and think back on moments long passed. I dug out an old photo album and found some good ones of us being silly on the beach one day when we were about 18 years old. We looked like kids, and the whole world still lay before us.

I had some great conversations with my old friend. Among much else, we talked about the other people we knew in high school, where they are now and how so many people never really leave home. All her family, for example, still live and work within a few miles of where they've always lived and worked. Except for me living 1,000 miles away in Colorado, my family is no different.

Tonight I found Memaw's house back in Texas listed for sale online. There are pictures both inside and out. I took a virtual tour of a house I know intimately. Most of the furniture was gone but some pictures and other objects remained. There were no people in the photos. No laughter. No birthday or holiday celebrations, no grandchildren running around, no pies in the oven. Pawpaw's garden is just a memory now paved over with a carpet of grass. It's just an ordinary country house waiting to be sold to the highest bidder, all the living memories now only ghosts in my mind. I never thought about it before, but it seems that a home can die too.

Just as I was about to sign off, I noticed the realtor selling the house was a childhood friend of my brother. I think he was about 7 years old the last time I saw him. Now he's wearing a big grin and trying to pawn off Memaw & Pawpaw's house.

I'm glad I got out of there and built my own life far away. My life is good and I'm getting everything I've sought. But I often think of friends and family long gone, plucked from my life by neglect, erosion or death. More often than you might suppose, I dream of youthful parents, the home I grew up in, and the arms that held me and encouraged me to find my road in the world. I sometimes long to be there, among familiar faces and comfortable places. I guess some people never really leave.