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OK, I already know that you are going to think me weird for this entry. I learned something about myself last night, in my sleep, in the weirdest way. A apologize for the length of this post, as the detail is amazing.

To preface this, I must tell you that I remember painfully few dreams. I don’t know why this is so, but it is, so there it is. For me to actually remember this dream with the clarity that I have is remarkable.

What’s even more remarkable is that this is a recurring dream, albeit with several, perhaps dozens or even hundreds of variations. This is an old dream; I’ve had it for at least the last 10 years, probably more. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but it’s almost as regular as a clock.

I’m a rooftop runner. I run rooftops in my dreams. I do it for recreation, although I’m sure there are thousands of others that run rooftops for various, nefarious reasons; I’m one of the good guys, however, as I never commit a crime when I run.

I run rooftops for relaxation, although now that I’m aware of this somnolent pastime I am amazed that I get no relaxation from this activity at all; it is something I do in my sleep and from which I derive enjoyment.

The running course is always across the street, and I always run on the west side of the street, toward the lake, which is about a mile away or so. The street, laden with huge trees and lush green lawns, is lined with interconnected houses, some of which are two-story, and some three- or four-story homes.

Gaps between the houses are nonexistent; there is always some sort of superstructure there to bridge the gap, be it a garage, a gazebo, or a slippery rock ledge along a cliff. The spans are also very short, never more than about 10 or 15 feet; the path I run is torturous and twisted, with steep inclines and fast drops, frequently off one roof and onto another house’s porch.

Each episode requires a fair amount of stealth, as rooftop running is highly illegal, even though many people do it. One must avoid the residents at all costs, as to encounter one, or be caught, would mean certain jail time.

For some reason, I’m fast. I’m a skilled runner, able to hide or dart from one level to another, avoiding residents with ease, almost as if I had some type of extrasensory perception of their presence. I run with grace, usually in silence, and although I have fallen a few times, I have rarely been seriously hurt.

I have seen some pretty bad things while running, too. I’ve seen fires, murders, rapes, burglars and illicit meetings between crime figures (I had a group of mobsters chase me once. They were no match for my skill and cunning). People do far worse things than run rooftops.

Meanwhile, I run. Down to the lake and back. Dusk or early evening, although I have run in the wee hours of the morning just for kicks.

The scariest thing about running rooftops is that every once in a while, I come off a house and onto a narrow, winding ledge with a sharp drop onto a porch on the third or fourth floor. The porches are usually stone with brick walls, and are never square; most have bay windows or even reverse bay windows, and the front wall to my right generally weaves through trees and brush.

On this type of approach, you have to be careful of people, especially if the porch is lit, as it is really easy to get caught as you zip around the corner too fast. One step too far and it’s curtains.

I’ve never been caught. Never once.

Until last night, that is. And I was caught by a small group of 3- or 4-year-olds, their mothers following them onto the porch. I couldn’t sense them.

I stopped cold. I told them I ran rooftops. They understood. I told them it was only in fun, for relaxation. They understood. I asked them if I could leave the home in the “normal” way. They politely escorted me out, down the stairs.

As I stepped through the doorway, I woke up to a dark bedroom, my wife snoring almost inaudibly next to me, her feet touching mine.

~~~

I can only think that Freud would have a field day with this one, although this dream is far from sexual. In fact, sex has never entered this dream once; it’s not the main concern of the dream.

Even though, as I said, I have seen crimes while running, I have never been involved with them as that is not my way. I have never reported a crime while running rooftops, either, because to do so would reveal my own crime. So I guess that I have something to hide, after all, even though it doesn’t seem like much of a crime to me at all.

The weird part is that people know I run rooftops, and they do little to stop me if anything at all.

I have no concept of what else this dream could mean; it could have thousands of interpretations, and I am not about to spend thousands of dead presidents to find out, either.

Suffice it to say that after at least a decade of having this dream, I am finally aware of it. I’ll figure it out, sooner or later.

As I write this, former President Ronald Reagan is being transported aboard SAM 28000 back to California for interment at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library. He is going home for the last time.

I have watched much of this week’s proceedings, from the motorcade from the library to the airbase, his arrival in Washington D.C., the caisson procession to the Capitol and the memorial service there, and today’s service at the Washington National Cathedral. I must say that I have been moved at several points.

Perhaps the most striking moment for me was when one media personality mentioned Reagan’s belief that communism was an aberration. Most people, at that time, believed in co-existence with communism as an alternative methodology.

Not Ronald Reagan. Reagan believed that communism was, as I see it, a form of slavery. Indeed, it is.

Consider this: under communism, and the Soviet-style “command economy,” people are told what they are to do for the country, regardless of their passion: the government sees a particular need, the potential (however relevant) in the individual, and they place that individual into that job. The government owns their home, their car, the business they work for — everything. They are told where to live, where to work, what to wear, what to drive, when to eat — everything. Sounds like slavery to me.

American corporations can do similar things with people. For instance, the last company that I worked for hired me initially as a part-time web designer. After six weeks, when it was evident that my back was up against the financial wall, they put me into sales.

I found out later that putting me into sales was their intention before they hired me. Had I known this, I would not have taken the job, as I have tired of sales and wish to move into web publishing as a career: my collegiate background is in Journalism, Photography, English and History; the Internet didn’t exist as we know it when I went to The Ohio State University back in 1977. Moving into web publishing, for me, was in a sense “going home” to my first love, a form of Journalism.

So sales, even Internet sales, was a form of slavery to me. Needless to say, the position didn’t work out, and now I free-lance while I look for gainful employment as a web designer.

This is freedom, and it is a price of freedom. Reagan believed that everyone would rather be free than be a slave, and I tend to agree with him. He stood tall against “the Evil Empire,” and his posture was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back: communism and the Soviet empire crumbled.

For this, and many other reasons, Reagan will be remembered as a great president. He should be. He brought back optimism, determination, will and strength back to the office of the President. I have no doubt that he will be honored as one of the greatest presidents, although the memorial in Washington D.C. is at least 25 years away. In the interim, they are talking about changing our money…

His funeral was totally appropriate and absolutely amazing. I watched the proceedings, totally riveted to CNN, for the last couple of days, and I will never forget it. I loved watching the military as they presented Mr. Reagan to the country: such formality and precision! I missed President Johnson’s state funeral for some odd reason, and I was 5 years old when Kennedy died (so I only remember the black-and-white photos of the caissons on the streets of Washington D.C.), so for my first state funeral, this was truly impressive.

Note: Ronald Reagan was the first president that I ever voted for. I am a liberal Independent voter, and I voted for him twice. I like to think that I made the right choice. I also like to think that the country made the right choice — at the right time.

Mr. Reagan had it all, and he used it masterfully.

***

On Nancy Reagan:

I have watched amazed at how the media is treating Nancy Reagan this week. It’s like they forget that Ronald Reagan had Alzheimer’s Disease. Of course, they don’t forget this, but they don’t seem to understand her “strength and stoicism.”

My mother died from Alzheimer’s Disease. It’s a long haul. A very long haul. It’s difficult, harder than you can imagine. And it’s mostly depressing, since you have to watch a loved one deteriorate slowly, day by day, into a helpless pile of corporeal mass.

At the end, I was a mush of conflicting thoughts and feelings: I felt relieved, as the long ordeal was over; I felt sad, as my mother was gone; I felt happy, because I knew she had gone to a better place, and that she was in a much better condition; I felt exhausted from the depression; I felt angry, because she left me alone; I felt joy, also because she left — to go to a better place.

The hardest part comes after the burial: everyone leaves to go about their business, and you are left alone. The idea is to rest, but that is when the memories return, and the going gets rough.

I understand the apparent stoicism; I’ve been there. The media is right about Nancy Reagan, though: she is strong, a tough cookie, and she will weather this storm well. I sincerely hope and pray that Nancy Reagan turns to her close friends and family during the next week or so. It’ll help.