The following is chapter three from The Happiness File by Pam Young and Peggy Jones
March—Dreams
—From Pam
“From Socrates to Edison, every forward step taken by mankind through revolving centuries, every advance by humanity towards the ultimate goal has been led by some valiant dreamer whose eyes were fixed upon the dawn.”
G. E. DINGER
March makes me think of shamrocks, lucky charms, and leprechauns. Kelly-green dye gets into the hands of playful party people who tint everything from dips and drinks to underwear. Without the St. Patrick’s Day enthusiasts, March seems like a rather unexciting month. The trees are still winterized, the tulip and daffodil bulbs are reluctant to pop up, and even the grass is not yet in the mood to tempt the Toro into its first mowing. The drizzly days and nights make me thankful to have a warm, cozy home. I love to sit by a crackling fire, watch the storms come and go, and daydream.
One of Webster’s definitions of the verb to dream is, “to consider as a possibility.” What would life be like without the promise of possibility?
We all have the power to dream, to use our imaginations to conjure up wonderful things.
I’ve always enjoyed dreams of grandeur. I love to drive in fancy neighborhoods and wonder what it would be like to live in a mansion behind an iron gate. I like to read those magazines for rich people and mull over travel brochures. I’m curious about famous people. I’ve tried to picture what it would be like to be famous; to have somebody come up to me and say, “Didn’t I see you on the cover of Time magazine?” and I’d get to say, “Yes.”
My dreams have been so much fun because they have taken my life out of the rut that we ordinary people can get into. I have been accused of living in a dream world and I suppose I do to some extent, but I recommend it. Everything I get involved in gets a full shot at my power to dream.
I love to make things with my hands, so tailoring has been a wonderful avenue for my imagination and creativity. There was a time in my married life that everything my family wore was handsome and I was proud of it. I couldn’t wait for someone to say, “Where did you get that dress?” and I could answer, “I made it.” It wasn’t exactly Time magazine, but I enjoyed the recognition.
Word got out that I could make truly unique things. I was flattered to hear that my handiwork had attracted the attention of a public relations manager at a Portland radio station. He asked me if I could make a dog costume.
The station had an artist draw up a picture of what was envisioned. It was a rather avant-garde dog, sort of a Huckleberry Hound in a Might Mouse cape. “Duke, the Wonder Dog” would glitter across the back of his uniform. He was to be covered in shocking pink fur and dressed in bright green satin trousers and vest, wearing square-framed purple sunglasses.
The staff of the station explained to me that they wanted the head of the dog to be big enough to make the entire animal about eight feet tall. (They said they could supply a six-foot guy to wear the costume.) They were extremely concerned about what the huge head would be made out of, since they’d had a hard time with a papier-mâché cow they’d previously used as a mascot. It rains a lot here, and they said the cow didn’t hold up very well marching in the last two Rose Parades because of the rain. In fact, at the last Multnomah County Fair, the cow leaked on the guy inside, during a guest appearance in a cloudburst.
They left it up to me to figure out what materials to use for Duke’s head, and for $400 I agreed to go for it. This was the first job I’d ever had outside of my home, and I was impressed that it was connected with show business. They told me Duke, the Wonder Dog, would become famous, appearing on billboards, marching in parades, and showing up at ribbon cuttings and anything else that was a big deal in Portland. I loved the thought that something I was to make would become a household word, and I had dreams of developing this new sideline into a lucrative business, even though I hadn’t the slightest idea about how I would make the dog.
I thought a lot about the material to use for the head, and the idea of Styrofoam popped into my mind. When I asked around I was told to see if a place called Plastic Time had what I needed. Twenty minutes later I was thrown into the world of resins (a world I wasn’t quite read for). The man said that what I should get was what they used for the heads at Disneyland. I agreed. Neither one of us knew what that was, so I went home with a gallon each of two chemicals that, when mixed together, would make Styrofoam. I was excited.
In the next few days I tried to figure out how to make a mold, because the stuff I bought had to be mixed together and immediately poured into the waiting shape of a dog head. The answer came: the beach. The ocean is eighty miles away, so I opted for a spot on the Willamette River. At that time I just had two children; Mike was five and Peggy Ann was not quite two. They were excited to get to go play in the sand. We packed the car with the usual; playpen, diapers, diaper bag, blankets, favorite toys, food, bottles, and, this time, a shovel, a large roasting pan for mixing, and two gallons of soon-to-be Styrofoam. We were on the river by 9:00 A.M.
I planned to dig, out of the sand, a perfect hole shaped like a dog’s head; then I’d mix the two ingredients together and pour it into the sand. It was hard to dig a hole four feet deep. For one thing, I wasn’t in good physical condition and the river sand was full of rocks (more like boulders), beer cans, and driftwood. It did not have the consistency I’d expected. As I got further into the project I thought perhaps an eighty-mile ride would have been a better alternative; at least the sand at the beach is sand all the way to Singapore. Four hours into the hole the kids got cranky. My spirits weren’t especially high either. I was getting fed up with nosy folks asking me why I was digging the huge hole. Also, the deeper down I dug, the harder it became to keep an eye on the kids, and then I hit clay. We took a break and had a wonderful picnic. I cautioned the children to stay away from the hole (if either one had fallen in, they would surely have broken bones).
When I resumed my project, I found it very hard to tell, by the hole, how cute the dog was going to be. When I’d dug what I’d guessed would be a mold that at least resembled a dog head, I proceeded with the next leg of my project. The container I had just barely held the two gallons of chemicals, but I thought it would be all right if a little of it spilled over while I stirred. I imagined that I’d pour the stuff into the hole and that the chemicals would start their work and foam after it was poured. I was shocked.
The concoction instantly swelled up and foamed over the turkey roaster, leaving barely enough to fill up the hole in the sand. The gooey lava bubbled and stank as it cooled. I eagerly tried to unearth my creation, but it wouldn’t come out of the ground. It was as hard to pull up as a stump. I had to stop a jogger and get him to help me. Together we yanked, and out came the most disgusting-looking object I’d ever seen in my life.
“What is it?”
“Oh, just an experiment.”
“Interesting…What are you going to do with it?”
“Oh, nothing.”
I went back to Plastic Time. This time the man told me about fiberglass. He said that I’d need to make a form to put the material on but that it would certainly make a sturdy head. I agreed.
What kept me going was my vision of duke cavorting with happy children at parades and grand openings and the recognition I would receive when Duke made his début in front of the station manager.
Fiberglass is a very serious substance. It looks like angel hair (that white Christmas hair) in fabric form. It is dipped into chemicals and then placed on a form where it gets very hot and then dries as hard as a Corvette. I made my head form out of papier-mâché and then covered the entire thing with the fiberglass.
For six weeks my house smelled like some kind of a manufacturing plant. Since I was disorganized, fiberglass was everywhere and the whole family was itchy. (The filaments had a way of working themselves up pant legs and sleeves, underneath elastic bands, and in between the sheets on the beds.)
When I was finished, the head weighed about eighty-five pounds. I had to rent a portable Skil saw and saw two scallops out of the base of the head so that it could rest on the shoulder of the person who would be wearing it. I also had to rig up a harness that would hold the head securely to the victim. The harness was made of leather and it crossed under the arms and buckled at the waist.
By the time I’d finished with Duke I was sure I didn’t want to make costuming a business.
It wasn’t because of the money (I broke even), it was because I had new ideas; and I was sick of sewing fake fur.
By coincidence, about a year after I sold the dog, I ran into a longshoreman who boasted having a part-time job being Duke, the Wonder Dog. I came forward to receive credit, but it wasn’t pleasant when he found out that I was the dog’s creator.
“Why did you make him so (beep-beep) heavy? The (beep-beep) head must weigh a hundred pounds.” I tried to explain, but the man was wild.
“You know, last week I was over at The Enchanted Mountain for Kiddy Day and some little snot got me off-balance and the weight of that son of a (beep) head pinned me to the ground like a damn turtle.” I apologized.
“Did you hear that I fainted in the Fairytale Parade?”
“No.”
“Yeah, it was on the six o’clock news.”
“What happened?”
“Well, it was so blasted hot in that head because it was a hundred degrees that day that I couldn’t get any air. But I figured out what to do.”
“What?”
“I installed a battery-operated fan up in the top of the head. I built a little shelf up there and it works great!”
“A fan. What a great idea!”
“Yeah, I figured, what’s another ten pounds? I just wish the fan didn’t make so much (beep-beep) noise. The kids are always tryin’ to get me down to find out where the buzzing’s coming from.”
In spite of the negative weight factor, Duke was darling. (There’s a picture of him in the Family Album section.) The recognition and praise I got for the way he turned out wasn’t enough to make me aim for a career in costuming.
Dreams aren’t etched in stone. You can drop them, change them, pick them up again, and you can hang on to some when you know you’ll never do anything about them.
When Peggy and I were little, Granny used to take us shopping in downtown Portland. We’d catch the Greyhound bus out on the highway (Granny didn’t drive) and have an all-day outing. On the way home the bus route always took us past an incredible grand old theater, a building like the Historical Society fights to restore. Its huge marquee in millions of brilliant lights flashed out the words, “THE BLUE MOUSE.” It left us spellbound, but we were always tired and on our way home, so we couldn’t stop to go inside. Granny would say, “Next time we come to Portland we’re gonna go straight to The Blue Mouse!” The three of us pictured a nonstop medley of Walt Disney features: Pinocchio, Snow White, and Bambi, one right after the other. It would be an animated film festival, interrupted only briefly by Sylvester and Tweety. We dreamed about it. We told Mom we were going. We saved for it. We waited…and waited…and…waited.
Eventually, “next time” turned to “someday.” We still thought about it, but not as often. And every once in a while Granny would say, “We’ve got to go to The Blue Mouse!”
Years passed and Granny’s feet were bothering her, so just Peggy and I went shopping in Portland by ourselves; I was a licensed driver by then.
“Wanna go to The Blue Mouse?”
“No, I’ve got a date tonight.”
“You wanna just drive by it?”
“Sure. What street’s it on?”
“It’s right after the bus depot and just past Manning’s.”
We saw the flashing lights in the distance. Maybe we could spare the time. As we got closer the lights caught our attention less than the people lying on the sidewalk.
“Sissy, lock your door!”
The blue Mouse had become an X-rated adult theater. Next door was a topless bar and a tattoo parlor. Across the street was a bookstore with blackened windows and a pawn shop boasting, “Diamonds—Tackle—Guns.” We were devastated. At what point had Pollyanna given way to Linda Lovelace? We didn’t tell Granny. We couldn’t spoil it for her.
It had been a beautiful dream, and years later we heard her tell our children, “Someday I’ll have your mom take us all over to The Blue Mouse.” Granny is gone now. She never knew what had become of the theater, but the fantasy was worth every minute we spent imagining it.
Maybe there’s a Blue Mouse in your life…something you’ve always wanted to do, or be, or have, and it hasn’t materialized.
Jiminy Cricket said, “When you wish upon a star your dreams will come true.” And Snow White sang, “Have faith in your dreams and someday your rainbow will come smiling through.” I’m more inclined to agree with Ms. White than the cricket. Not all of my dreams have come true, but they have been worth every bit of my time and, like a rainbow, they have added the color that has made my life a joy.
Dare to dream. Risk using your marvelous imagination. Einstein said, “Imagination is more important than intellect.” Don’t be scared to let your imagination soar.
A multimillion-dollar industry devotes its entire bankroll to fantasy. If Hollywood can do it, if Disneyland/World is rolling in it, if Dynasty can be picked up for another season, then you can indulge yourself by conjuring up a few wild and crazy notions.
If you have forgotten how to dream because somebody told you to knock it off, it’s a snap to get back up in the clouds. Take at least an hour (get a sitter for your kids—you need time to yourself) and go to the biggest newsstand you can find. It might be at your bookstore or in your combination grocery and variety store. Spend the entire hour looking at magazines. Whether your interest is underwater stump blasting or southern Caribbean yodeling, there is a magazine on the subject. Browse through the magazines and let them pull you right off your Nikes. Buy a couple of them and consider subscribing to at least one.
The monthly or weekly arrival of a periodical that satisfies your interest will keep you from losing sight of your dreams. I subscribe to several magazines, and the day they arrive I attach a few white 3x5 cards to the cover with a paper clip. Whenever I sit down to read I take a pen with me. If something strikes me as funny or inspirational, I write it down. I write any information I want to remember on cards. My spelling and vocabulary have improved through my practice of writing down words that are new to me. I also remember more about who is running the country because I record names and titles in writing when I come across them.
Another great thing about magazines is that they are loaded with pictures you can paste in your scrapbook. Confucius said a picture is worth a thousand words. Cut out pictures of your dreams for your scrapbook. Gather a collection of possibilities in full color. What better way to develop your imagination than with pictures that help you dream?
To take off with a dream, you need to have a flight plan. Recently Peggy and I were stuck in Houston because there was no place to land in Denver, where we were to catch a flight home. The captain said he was adhering to the fuel conservation plan, and so, to prevent having to burn gas circling over Denver, we had to wait in Houston for a gate.
Circling burns fuel. If you take off too soon with a dream, you’ll burn up unnecessary energy and maybe even crash. I’m thankful that I had only been asked to make one dog and that I wasn’t commissioned to make costumes for the Ice Capades. I could have been responsible for some nasty accidents on the ice, not to mention increasing the noise pollution with all the fans whirring away inside the costume heads.
Pick a specific dream (from among those in your note book in the “be,” “do,” and “have” sections) and decide to start right now making it a reality. Before you start, though, promise yourself that you will keep it a secret. If you tell a friend that you are going to write a play or run for mayor, you might get a discouraging response. Telling your dreams defuses the energy in the idea. Maintaining your solemn vow of silence, proceed as you did when you broke down the things that were on your mind into manageable segments in part II.
You start taking action to realize your dreams by recording the dream on a 3x5 card and as many steps as you can think of to make it come true. The magazines you’ve started reading will help you to brainstorm. The library is a great place to locate information you may need. What’s most important is to start taking action now. Some actions can be scheduled on the Daily routine Card; some others will go on the Immediate Action Card, and some will go in the monthly section to be worked on later.
Take some of your quiet morning time to work on your scrapbook. Get excited about your dreams. You deserve to take time to dream, to consider the possibility of reaching your highest goal. Not so very long ago we thought the earth was shaped like a plate, and now we’ve set foot on the moon.
Who’s to say we can’t realize our fantasies? And besides, if a dream is never dreamed, it can never become a reality.
Sweet Dreams
