Pay Attention To Your Dreams

Ten years and two weeks ago…give or take…I had a dream about my oldest brother, Leland. I dreamed he died.

While I cannot recall the particulars of the dream now, I do remember waking-up with a start very early in the morning, feeling a bit anxious…yet extremely relieved…that it was only a dream. I instinctively reached for the phone, thinking I would call just to check on him and make sure everyone was okay without actually blurting out, “Oh, by the way, I had a death dream about you last night.” Hey, all evidence to the contrary, I do know how to be discreet.

But, I didn’t call. It was very early for one thing and, for another, my mom had always told me that a dream did not necessarily mean what you thought it meant; i.e., the obvious. I mean, I had had death dreams before and no one actually died. So, I didn’t call. Still, for days afterward, I had the nagging memory of this dream hovering in the back of my head...taunting me...haunting me.

This was back in July 1998, and I had been living in Cincinnati for all of seven months. I still had my house in South Point and went home almost every weekend. On Saturday, July 11th of that year, my nephew, Mike, was getting married, so I had naturally planned to go home that weekend.

The Thursday night before the wedding, I had this overwhelming sensation, compelling me to pick up the phone and call Leland. I actually remember going to the phone, picking it up and then thinking how silly this was. After all, I was going to see him at the rehearsal dinner the next evening…whatever I had to say could wait until then...right? That was back in the day when money was tighter than it is now and way before I had unlimited long distance. So, again...I didn’t call.

I left work early Friday afternoon for the two and a half hour drive home. I got in town with plenty of time to spare before dinner, so I thought I would stop by the church to see how the rehearsal was going. When I stepped inside the church, everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at me. That was my first clue...something was definitely wrong. Then my brother, Harold, walked down the aisle to where I was standing and asked me to walk with him; he had something to tell me.

I could tell by the look on his face that I didn’t want to hear what he had to tell me, so I hung back a bit and said, “No, I don't think I want to. I don't want to hear whatever it is you have to tell me, do I?” He stopped, his eyes filled with tears, and he looked down at me and said, “You’re right.” Then he went on to tell me that Leland had died around 4:00 that afternoon.

He was 60 years young…and I do mean young. Leland was an elementary school teacher, and he was still teaching up to the very end despite the fact that he could have retired years earlier. I remember my last conversation with him, I had asked him if he was going to retire that year, and he had said, “No, I’m going to teach one more year.” That was what he always said…he was going to teach one more year.

You may think it odd that a man had spent that many years in the school room. The fact is that many people in the profession had approached him numerous times to go into the administrative side of education…he did have a Masters Degree in the field after all, but he preferred the classroom to the boardroom. He touched a lot of lives.

In the summer, when he wasn’t teaching, he mowed lawns for a few elderly people in the neighborhood. It was a way of making some extra cash and a way to stay in shape, because he did it the old fashioned way; i.e., he used a push mower not a riding mower. On the day he died, he had mowed two lawns. Then he came home, took a shower, and sat down in his favorite chair to take a nap before heading down to South Point for the wedding rehearsal.

He never woke up. He just went to sleep…and died.

My sister-in-law, Marge, was in the next room, and she heard a gurgling sound, but by the time she got to him…for all intents and purposes…he was gone. Marge, of course, tried to revive him, but Leland was over 6’ tall and weighed around 225, and he was leaning back in the recliner. Marge simply could not get him out of the chair or even maneuver him around so she could get at him to administer CPR.

To compound matters, their two kids were out of town. Julie, my niece, had gone back to Indiana for the weekend to visit with college friends. Jeff, my nephew, was already en route to South Point because his little guy, Zachary, was going to be the ring bearer in the wedding. There is a lot of rural area between Springfield, Ohio (where Leland lived) and South Point, Ohio, and there wasn’t a cell phone tower every whipstitch like there is now, so Marge was unable to reach Jeff by phone.

So, my brother, Tom, had to meet Jeff and his family at the hotel when they arrived and deliver the devastating news…that he needed to turn around and go straight back to Springfield because his father had died that afternoon. I can only imagine how incredibly long and difficult that three and a half hour drive back to Springfield had to have been for all of them.

The wedding? Well, the wedding went on as planned. We got Mike and Joey married and off on their honeymoon, then the rest of us turned around and headed to Springfield for a funeral. Does that qualify as being ironic?

Leland was almost 14 years old when I was born. By the time I was old enough to “enjoy” having a big brother, he was away in the army. When he came home, he enrolled in the local branch campus of Ohio University and got his Bachelor’s degree in education. He taught one year locally, then applied for and got a teaching position in Springfield, Ohio.

What can I tell you about my brother? He was always good to me…took me places...wanted me to experience life, you know? One of my earliest memories is of him taking me to movies at the old Ro-Na Theater in Ironton, Ohio. I remember him taking me to see “Old Yeller” and “Babes In Toyland” and “Ben Hur.” He loved “West Side Story.” Mom used to talk about how he would sing “Maria” at the top of his lungs while in the shower. He introduced me to books, and music, and theater, and literature. I got my love of sports from my dad, and Tom, and Harold. I got my love of the more “refined” things life has to offer from my big brother Leland.

When I say he was a “young” 60, I mean that. The fact that he…literally…keeled over dead knocked us all for a loop. I mean, he did everything right. He exercised. He watched everything he put in his mouth. If he had a weakness, it was sweets. Hello…it kind of runs in the family. Our dad was the skinniest one of the bunch, but he had to have a bite of something sweet after dinner.

Leland was a big guy...but not overweight. Not like the rest of my family. I said after he died that the rest of us didn’t stand a chance…so why bother.

Now, I buried my mother in 1991 and my father in 1992, and both of those funerals were extremely hard to bear, but I got through them. You get “through” these things, you know, you just never get “over” them. Now, I have to say that the way Leland died...no suffering...no pain...is the best possible way to die...especially if you're the one doing the dying, but it is hard as hell on the ones left behind. I suppose there is something to be said for having the chance to "say good-bye." But when I saw my brother lying dead in that casket…looking like he had never been sick a day in his life…and that he was lying there asleep…it took every ounce of self-restraint I could muster to keep from grabbing hold of his shoulders to shake him awake.

His was the hardest...so far.

I don't dwell on it, but at the same time, I’ll never get over it. I told everyone right then and there that I’d better be the next one to “go” because I was “done” going to funerals. I will go to the wake or visitation to pay my respects to friends and family, but that is as far as I’ll go. So far, I have stuck to that self-imposed edict.

As in most things in life, there is a bit of humor to be derived from this tragedy. That’s just me…I have to find the laughter. Well, at the wake, I was sitting off in a corner of the room away from the main crowd. Leland had lived in Springfield for almost thirty-five years…there were few people we knew.

So, my other brothers, their families, and I were sitting in a group together when this woman approached us and in a big, booming voice, she said, “Which one of you is Lee’s sister?” I kind of laughed to myself and turned an apprehensive expression on her, raised my hand and replied, “That would be me.”

She went on to explain that she had taught with Leland for several years, and she just wanted me to know how proud he was when I got my first book published. “I taught her everything she knows,” the lady (sorry, I cannot recall her name) told me is what he had announced in the teacher’s lounge one day. Then my book came out, and they read it.

Let me explain. The title of my first book was “Tides Of Ecstasy.” It was an historical romance novel filled with several…shall we say…rather “explicit” amorous love making scenes. After reading the book, Leland burst into the teacher’s lounge and soundly informed them, “Well, I didn’t teach her THAT!”

That’s a good memory I take from this heartbreaking event.

And, I suppose, if there is a moral to this story it’s...pay attention to your dreams. I assure you, ever since then, if I ever have a disturbing dream about someone I know…someone I care about…I call them. Just to check…just to make sure. You just never know when the last time you talk to someone will indeed be the very last time.