Crushed dream - Theme for the 2nd of December 2019

From Paula:

Sally lived with her brothers and parents in a lovely leafy suburb of London called Crouch End. Sally was 12; her twin brothers, Alex and Drew, were 10. Their house was at the foot of a sweeping cul de sac lined with trees: sycamores, English oak and horse chestnut. Their front garden contained a giant weeping willow, which provided an advantageous spot for the children to hide beneath and spy on the comings and goings of their neighbors. Their back garden was a vast expanse of green lawn, stretching away from the deck behind the house down to the shed at the bottom of the property, and was lined with silver birch trees. Sally’s mum had scattered a few benches and small tables at the edges of the garden, but the large green lawn, perfectly intact, was the favored spot for games of Red Rover and Capture the Flag.

In fact, the house at No. 12 Hornsey Lane was the favorite of all the children on the block, not only because of the huge back garden, not only because Sally, Alex and Drew were always up for any game at any time, but also because of their parents. Known to everyone in the neighborhood as Mr. and Mrs. D, they were welcoming to every child. In their house, no one was ever saying “Get those muddy boots off! Take your feet off the sofa! No jumping on the beds!” And when the children were playing in the back garden, there was always a large pitcher of freshly made lemonade on the deck, alongside a platter of homemade cookies.

Every child in that neighborhood secretly harbored the wish that they had been born into a house so full of laughter and love. Of course, their own houses had love, and laughter, but not exactly on the scale found in Sally, Alice and Drew’s home. That house, that home, was special, and every child in the neighborhood understood it innately.

In that home, on Boxing Day every December, a neighborhood gathering was held. Every family on the block brought a dish to share, and a bottle or two, as well. At the house, there was a little present for each neighborhood child, something small but special, something that was the perfect gift for that boy or girl, something even their own parents might not have guessed. Cries of excitement and happiness would fill the air.

And as the evening wore on, and the children wearied of their games, and the moms and dads had moved from wine to tea or coffee, everyone would gather in the living room for a game of charades. The children clamored to be paired with Sally, or Drew, or Alex, because they were funny and smart and made the best faces. The adults jostled among themselves, hoping to draw Mr. or Mrs. D as their partner, for the same reasons. And as the charades ended, and the evening wore down, families would drift away home, to dream of Boxing Days and weekend barbecues and neighborhood birthday parties to come, with the best family in the world.

Early the next morning, just before dawn, Crouch End was rocked by an immense explosion, a blast that shook every child, every mother, and every father out of their beds, and left the neighborhood shaking in fear at what possibly could have happened. Windows shattered. Dogs howled in terror. Birds fled the trees. Moles scurried deep underground.

As the dust settled, people began venturing outside to find that a crater the size of Westminster Abbey was carved out of the ground where Sally and Alex and Drew’s house used to stand. Flames licked the edge of the lifeless pit. Deep in the earth was a colossal collection of sizzling rock, blindingly hot, that sent a pall of smoke rising over the whole neighborhood.

News crews had already started to arrive. Cameras were everywhere, many perched just at the edge of the smoking abyss where a family had once lived, had loved each other, had welcomed every child into their home as if he or she were their own.

“A meteor!” the cry went up, and was passed from house to house. A meteor, hurtling from space, no way to predict it, no warning to get out of its way, no time to protect one’s family from it. As the neighbors gathered, grieving at the unbelievable loss of this precious family, their pets, their home, anything that showed that people lived here once, people who were very, very special -- there was, in fact, one thing left standing.

At the curb, the sturdy letterbox, scorched and leaning at an odd angle, but intact all the same, held the family name: The Dreams.

Annemaries contribution:

Almost every weekend when we were children, we set off on the car to go swimming  in the lake, followed by a picnic. My mother always led the sing-songs during the half-hour car journey but being Dutch,  she knew no children's songs in English, so she would sing popular songs from the 50’s - « Que Sera, Sera », «  Red Sails in the Sunset » and endless Doris Day songs interspersed with wonderful Italian songs from the LP bought on their Italian holiday. I so loved these journeys and yearned to sing like my mother.
After my first term at boarding school, aged six, I was desperate to offer my selection of songs gathered and learnt from The National Song Book. I loved these rousing songs of the heroes  and heroines of « back home »,  our mother country thousands of miles away - The Campbell’s are Coming, in Dublin's Fair City , Men of Harlech, The Vicar of Bray - and I couldn't wait to launch forth with my favourite « The British Grenadiers » . After all I knew all the words and when to bellow out « with a tow row row row row row to the British Grenadiers » (I was quite shocked when I recently reread the words of shooting and killing). Well, I’d barely finished the first line , « some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules... », before my five year old  sister stuck her fingers in her ears and shouted

 “Stop! You can't sing. Please, mummy, tell her to stop. “

I was devastated. I never sang again in the family car.

 I thought I could recover my dream at school because the following term I was cast , age 7, in a Shakespeare play so fame was still a viable possibility.  Admittedly I had one line of only three words to say - « Sire , your crown » - and I am now sure I was only cast as the page boy because my surname was Page; but  how thrilled I was when , after the play was over, my teacher told me I was as good as the Missing Link! It was at least five years later that I discovered what the Missing Link really meant and the only stagework I undertook thereafter was behind, or painting, the scenes, and making costumes.  

What about learning the piano? Oh how I wanted (and still it is my number one dream) to play the piano. My best friend was the school's star music pupil and she spent multiple months patiently trying to teach me, only to give up in despair as I could not differentiate between notes and in all that time I managed to learn  only the first line of one Christmas carol by memorising the position and order of the notes.

 Each hammer blow of failure crushed my dream of singing, music or theatre until I progressed  from pupil to teacher. Now I was teaching 5-9 year olds all subjects including singing and movement and music! It lasted one week because the very first singing lesson two delightful children put their chubby fingers in their ears, just as my little sister had done fifteen years earlier, saying « Miss, my ears are hurting ».  Obviously I had a an insurmountable task; crushed yet again I was able to persuade a non-arty teacher to swap her art lessons  with my singing/music  lessons, both classes profiting from the arrangement but my  own entertainment abilities ever diminishing.
I still yearn to play the piano and burst into melodious song in company and achieved my ambition but once. While on holiday with friends we visited a 14th century beamed pub in the back of beyond. It happened to be their sin-song night and lubricated with red wine I and my tone deaf friend regaled the revellers with the entire nine verses of “On Ilkla Moor Bah 't 'at”. I am sure the applause was for finishing at last.

There is , of course one way you could all hear this songstress. Invisible in my car you could hear me sing along in perfect harmony and full operatic voice with Jose Carreras, the Beatles , you name it. When I am alone at home spending the day cooking you could creep in unseen and hear a perfect duet resounding round the house sung by Ella Fitzgerald and Annemarie Williams; you really don't know what you are missing!

Crushed dream by Jackie

Sigfried and Annabelle had been in love and  wrapped up in each other since high school.    At age 15 and 16 they used to sneak up to  Annabelles single bed – exploring themselves and then spending hours planning their future and vowing to spend the rest of their lives together –  Sigfried was her first and only man and Annabelle his  only conquest.    

In their imaginary world ..  

They would have 4 children two boys and two girls and three dogs and live in a large farmhouse in the countryside.     Sigfried would make enough money to take the family on far away holidays.    After high school graduation, then university  they  both started  jobs   finally deciding at age 30 to get married and managed to buy a small house and start a family. 

5 years later Annabelle had still not conceived so  investigated the idea of adopting a child.   It took ages to contact the different agencies – their private life was turned upside down by the visits of various officials , pyschologists and medical people.   Annabelle resented the probing and indiscrete questions the couple were obliged to answer.

   

Finally the day arrived a little girl was handed over to the couple who so wanted to start a family.      The 6 month old baby looked like a Russian doll.    Round baby rosy cheeks , pearly white teeth with a sweet smile and beautiful blue eyes.    She gurgled, giggled and her tinkle like laugh enchanted the couple.    But……… she had no name.   So they called her “Dream”.     Representing their every desire.  

“Dream” had been to several families since her birth her mother having abandoned her in a van parked in the forest.       It was only by chance that she was discovered one cold night by night hunters passing by .

Since then for some unknown reason she went  from family to family – and when questioned why the family couldn’t keep her as a foster child they  kept silent and no amount of questioning gave an answer.

This sweet child with dark curly hair and chubby fingers played happily during the day , Annabelle took her out in the new pushchair and received compliments from everyone she met – such a beautiful child – how lucky you are .     Annabelle bought a white wooden bed – decorated it with flowing tulle and ribbons –

Friends gave teddy bears and squeaky toys an she  put up a  baby mobile   with dancing animal shapes that reflected on the ceiling.   

It started on the very first night.    As soon as the child was put to bed the nightmares started–she banged her head against the bars of the new white wooden bed,  wailed and cried all night long – woke every hour screaming her head off with night terrors trembling and only calmed down when she was in their arms.

Another night she was found standing up scratching the walls,  tearing the pretty teddy bear wallpaper to shreds that Annabelle had so lovingly put up when she had heard they were to have a child.   The sleepless night made them tired and irritable and they started to argue and fight over trivial events in their everyday lives .   Tensions grew and both dreaded bedtime for the child.

Annabelle had never imagined that a  baby could behave in this way and after a few weeks of sleepless nights was   desperate to find an answer to stop this and develop a healthy routine. 

As this went on for many weeks they were longing to find a solution  – one night Annabelle took Dream and placed her between Sigfried and herself – as the child finally fell asleep appeased by the warmth and comfort of her parents they both fell into a deep and much needed slumber.         And sleep they did.     After months and months of waking up every hour,  rocking the baby, cuddling her,  pacing up and down,  worrying about her they both slept soundly knowing that baby was wedged between them tucked in safe and sound.

   

They slept so profoundly that when Annabelle finally woke the next day she turned over and gazed at her baby child  – but her sweet face was slightly squashed up against Sigfrieds back and as she took her into her arms she saw that  her cheeks were no longer rosy pink but white and pasty.   She was alarmed to see black bags under her eyes – she couldn’t hear her breathing, her body was limp,  cold to the touch – she gently stroked her arm then shook her more violently screaming  Dream Dream wake up now its morning – Her crying woke Sigfried  and they both stared at their child …

The baby girl had been compressed between their weight.    Both dead to the world in their need to catch up on their sleep they had neither heard her protests nor felt the baby being slowly flattened between them as they tossed and turned  – gradually suffocating  her.

They had  crushed their dream