Kris complains that we don’t get enough sleep. We are usually in bed at a decent hour, but I generally read for a while (i.e. up to two hours) before actually falling asleep. Especially lately, I haven’t been well-rested in the morning.
Last night’s sleep was awesome. I fell asleep at about ten, and I didn’t get up until six. Yes, I awoke at several times during the night (I always do), but only briefly. And each time I grogged awake, the clock said something magical like 1:15 or 2:03 or 3:23, fantastic times that promised several more hours of sleep before morning. Usually when I grog awake and look at the clock, it says something ominous like 5:30, meaning the alarm is nearly ready to go off. It’s a wonderful feeling to look at the clock in the middle of the night and realize that you’re not even half way through your slumber, but it’s dismal to see that you only have a few moments of rest remaining.
Besides, I had great dreams last night, and I was able to remember them this morning.
Roger and Kristin have moved into their new house. It’s in the middle of a dense woods in a small valley hidden in the middle of Portland.
Ian loves the house. Roger and Kristin allow him to traipse around outside without supervision, and the woods are his playground. He climbs trees and digs holes and plays with the animals.
One day his Grandpa Ken comes over and Ian takes him out into the woods. They don’t return for dinner, and then they don’t return for supper, and they don’t return for bedtime. In the morning, Roger and Kristin summon all their friends — which, for some reason, includes the group from my Saturday morning photography class — and we fan out, searching the woods.
A group of us comes up with a clever idea: we’ll start at the back end of the woods and work our way toward the main group. The best way to reach the back end of the woods is through some nearby caves.
We drive to the top of a hill in the middle of Portland and we take an elevator down to the caves. We have our cameras with us. We’re surrounded by the typical tourists who always come to see these caves on Sunday morning. “Out of our way — we’re photographers,” we say, and people step aside.
We make our way through the caves and out to the woods. Only a few hundred yards from the exit, we encounter a large black bear and its cubs. We’re frightened that the bear may have eaten Ian and Ken, and that it may be hungry for us next, but the beast retreats when it sees our cameras.
To our relief, we find the lost hikers a few minutes later. They’re not really lost, though. They’ve built a full-fledged log-cabin and are preparing a breakfast of sausage and eggs and they invite us in to join them.
I’m a hobbit, bedded down at an inn for the night. Only the inn is very much like the main lodge at Drift Creek Camp, and I’m boarded upstairs, by myself, in a room filled with several bunkbeds. I’ve been assigned to the top bunk of the bed closest to the door.
I’m sprawled on the bed, maps and papers strewn all around me, and I’m copying important information into my personal journal:
- Trees of Mirkwood seem alive. May be Ents!
- Secret door visible at the last light of the setting sun, when the thrush knocks.
- Gandalf’s birthday October 11th. New hat?
The maps and papers from which I’m copying are all old, tattered role-playing supplements.
I’m supposed to be meeting with Gandalf, but he hasn’t shown. He’s always late. I hope that nothing has detained him, because evil seems to be pressing from all sides. Plus, the sooner we meet the better, because after we’re through with our business, I’m going to play ping-pong with Mac and Joel (also hobbits).
As I’m working, a dirty little gnome — he looks like Dobby the House Elf — creeps through the room, trying to look nonchalant. That’s difficult, though, since I’m the only other person in this bunkbed-filled room.
Butterbur calls me down for supper, but I’m reluctant to leave my work. I know Sauron’s spies want to steal these maps and papers from me. I take my journal, at least.
I have a jolly supper, but sure enough: when I return to my room, all of the maps and papers are gone.
Just then Gandalf arrives, all storm and fury. I explain that the maps and papers have just been stolen and he calls me a fool. I hate it when he calls me a fool, so I begin to stomp around in my little hobbit-sized storm and fury.
I march downstairs, call Butterbur “Butterball”, and demand that he find the lost maps and papers. I ask about the dirty gnome that I saw earlier. Butterbur is distraught. He doesn’t know anything about a dirty gnome.
I hear a noise in the closet.
And then I wake up, because there really is a noise in the closet. Toto is banging around among Kris’ clothes, digging at the carpet, hopping on the closet organizer. What makes cats do this kind of stuff at five in the morning?
Maybe I should go to bed early every night.
On 14 April 2003 (03:15 PM),
On 14 April 2003 (04:54 PM),
Amy Jo said:
On 14 April 2003 (08:14 PM),