In my fitful dreams I also saw a rough looking farm family riding in an old, rickety, work wagon in a fine rain under a gray, foreboding sky. The sun served as a bright backlight high in the fog. Six or seven excited children moved around in the back of the wagon. The team, wagon, and family were crossing a new stone bridge. The mules' hooves sucked the mud as they walked. The mother was gothic quaint with a large, dark-brown sunbonnet. She was starkly pale and solemn. Her man was blank faced, with his eyes fixed on the shiny, wet rumps of his team. An old rain-soaked, felt slouch hat was pulled low on his head. His bearing was so very haggard. The young ones were laughing and throwing rocks off the wagon into the fast-running brown Elk River below.
My dream's eye saw two old men. One man was robust with soft, white hair and a rosy complexion. He was dressed in a luxurious, darkly-colored, plush velvet, Prince Albert-style dressing gown. The other was wearing what seemed a Halloween wig and appeared to have rouge on his cheeks. His dressing gown was a vibrant red. He was sallow, sweaty, and emaciated.
There was a heavy smell of dampness, mold and decay.
The men were in an embrace and the bewigged old man was sobbing quietly between strenuous efforts to catch his breath. The big man was holding him gently, kissing the tears on his face. The scene evoked was as a prose description from an Alice Rice vampire novel. Tall, narrow windows framed a lightless outside and were bordered with deep navy, heavy drapes. The room had sparse furnishings. An empty straight-backed chair complimented the occupied love seat. Light was provided by blazing, tall candles reflecting in mirrors on tables along two walls. The candles' flickering light struck tall-stemmed wine glasses, creating twinkling colors.
***
And then I was in a shaggy cedar thicket with limestone outcroppings all around me. A cold breeze blew and there was icy snow on the ground. All around was smoke, shouting, the roar of cannon and heavy, irregular gunfire. There was no sky to see, just a gray, menacing, cloudy encirclement. As I blinked and tried to figure out where I was and what to do I, heard a voice say, "Tarnation! Get down, you damn fool." I saw, through a brief clearing of the thick, gray curtain, a small, very young man dressed in an assortment of ragged clothes. He was wearing a faded, tattered, tan shell jacket over a coarse dark maroon waistcoat. His brown britches had haphazardly patched knees.