I became interested in dreams when I was five years old. Every Saturday and Sunday morning, my dad asked me what I dreamed. He left for work at six thirty in the morning, too early for me to be out of bed, so weekends were the only time he asked about my dreams. Dad would go out into the kitchen, pull open the drawer of the china cupboard, and take out a tablet, pencil and a bright orange book. He wrote down my dream, not the entire contents just key words he wanted to look up the meaning of. Then he would open the book; flip through the pages until he found the one he wanted.After jotting down a list of numbers he folded the paper, tucked it into his shirt pocket, scoop up his things, and carefully place them in his special spot in the drawer. Then he would go for his morning walk to the friendly neighborhood barber who was also the neighborhood bookie.One day out of curiosity, I took out the book. That was my first encounter with a dream book, which was really a lucky numbers dream book. It had alphabetically words that gave a brief meaning of what an object meant to the dreamer followed by a number. When my dreams become more detailed and somewhat too complicated Dad stopped asking me about my dreams. I was dreaming about things that seemed to my dad far-fetched fantasies. I did my best to clarify what I was seeing in my dreams but my limited knowledge and vocabulary wasn't adequate. I missed thweekend brief discussions. I couldn't find anyone to share my dream interest. Listening to a ten years old talk about dreams was boring especially when what I had to say seemed to them like utter nonsense. I was labeled "having a great imagination". I began to wonder if most people never dreamed. Why was I so different? If no one else seemed to think dreams matter, then why should I? It did matter to me. What was it about dreams that fascinated me?
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