Dream On

"Regrets, I have a few--but then again, too few to mention..."
--I Did It My Way,Frank Sinatra

Arriving here in West Virginia on Tuesday, we started into our normal routine of parking and unhitching the rig, connecting the water and sewer hoses and the electric cable, putting out the slides, and following our routine. I was inside putting the furniture back into place when I heard the distinct sound of a southern twang outside the window and stopped what I was doing to listen in.

Our next door neighhor had come out to talk to Denny while he was setting up the satellite dish and within five minutes we (because I was eavesdropping inside) knew that David had been married multiple times, bought and raced cars, collected "classic" cars of the fifties and sixties, played and sang in Nashville, yada yada. After about fifteen minutes I went outside to provide an easy way out of the conversation for Denny but instead I got sucked into the whole sad saga of his life; his songs were all inspired by his cruel ex-wife, he had a great pension and lots of stock from his years of working for Phillip-Morris, he owned property, he currently had a much younger wife, he had all these cars he couldn't give up, but the siren song of Nashville still called him. Dave is 68 years old, dyes his hair brown and puts moisturizer (and probably makeup) on his face to stay the wrinkles in case he gets a gig or a record deal in Nashville. He has dreams, you see, that just won't die. But he can't let go of those less ephemeral items in his life to reach for those dreams. Listening to him you hear the background music; cars, property, stocks, pension, money, niece who owned a lens crafting business and is a "tycoon", brother who is wealthy, money, money, money, money. A steady beat that measure his life. Dave says that he wants the life onstage, he misses it, needs it, but the beat drums money, comfort, money, comfort, money and drowns him out. Dave at 68 years old is waiting for that dream to happen because he's not willing to give up those things that define him.

Our music is the symphony of the outdoors; the fluting call of the warbler, the drumming of the flicker on the tree, the tinkling xylophone of water bouncing over rocks in the creek. Our dream is to look out our living room window and have a different landscape to look at every week or two. Our bank account is slender, our property is what we carry in our truck and our rig, but our dream? Oh yes, we're living our dream. Some day, will you?