I had a Dream too

“What do you mean, ‘Start packing?’ Packing to go where?”

Marilyn was irritable. She had a headache. And her fuse was short. Her patience—did she ever remember having any?—was long gone. The stress of losing her job just a few years short of retirement, along with access to long-awaited funds, that were now gone...stolen...had taken its toll. And through the process, she had somehow transformed from a fairly-easy-going-almost-retired-60-something, into a screaming-mimi-shrew.

She had spent years planning a dream vacation for herself and her husband. All for nothing, because she had worked for what was once a reputable company that had somehow became a den of crooks and thieves.

This wasn't just any vacation that she had lost. It was much more. It would have launched them into a whole new life. In just a few short years, there would have been plenty of funds to bring their dream to fruition...funds from the company matched, private, investments she had made.

She and George had planned to use part of the money taking a full month to drive through the scenic back-roads of the U.S., while they photographed images for coffee table books they planned to create and publish together.

They had spent hours pouring over maps, planning travel routes for their trip. They planned to visit bookstores, restaurants, and tourist shops that would carry their books. And throughout their retirement, for money and for fun, they would attend festivals as venders to sell the books created from photos they would take during that thirty-day trip.

Their plans for a fun-filled, carefree, and creative retirement, all began with the road trip, that early on, George had dubbed “The Grand American Road Trip.”

They had decided that would also be a great title for their first coffee table book. Now, with her job and funds lost, due to her employer's corrupt business practices, her own short-sightedness and stubborn refusal to follow sound advice, their dream was gone.

Marilyn had trusted her employers to a fault, along with the shady counsel she received from company advisers. She had foolishly invested exclusively, and heavily, in her company's private--and risky--enterprises. After all, the business had been founded before she was born. It was making money and wasn't going anywhere. She thought.

Marilyn was not taking the loss of her dream graciously, and she was angry with herself. She felt overwhelmed and buried alive in an avalanche of negative emotions. The heat of her outbursts did nothing to melt the icy tomb she was trapped in. And she was terrified her angst would do irreparable damage to her marriage.

She had to pull herself together.

“George Rittenberger, after nearly 40 years, you ought to know better than to expect me to dig through that abyss you call a garage, looking for a suitcase I have not laid eyes on in years...and start packing for destination-unknown! Besides, we can't afford a trip to the bathroom right now.

“Just pack, Honey. No questions.”

How had he managed to stay so calm throughout this horrendous ordeal? Life as they knew it—or at least as they had planned it—was over… forever.

Marilyn was a bottomless pit of swirling emotions, dominated by anger and bitter disappointment.

“Pack what? Don’t be silly. I have work to do.”

“Humor me, Marilyn. Go get your suitcase. Start packing. Pack anything you like. Pack for the weekend. We leave in the morning—at least I’m leaving in the morning, with or without you.”

George knew how to get his way when he wanted to. Grumbling...loudly...Marilyn took her time, puttering around the house while angling toward the garage.

The suitcase was in the attic. She had known that all along. She reached up and grabbed the rope to the folding ladder. The last time she had been in the attic, was after their last vacation, two years ago. Since then, all extra money had been earmarked for the Grand American Road Trip.

George had retired last year, and they had agreed there would be no more vacations until her retirement. Of course, after her job, along with all her investments, had fallen prey to felons, they decided it would be best to use their savings to pay off debt. That way they could live on George's income and she could find another job...or not. If the unforeseen and unthinkable hadn't happened, they were on schedule to be out of debt before her retirement day arrived.

No sense hashing and rehashing the what ifs. Heat from the attic assaulted her as she climbed the last few rungs to the top, and stepped inside.

What was that old footlocker doing in the space where the suitcase should have been? Oh yes, she remembered asking George to bring it up here while she was still anticipating the dream. It had been taking up space in the spare room they were turning into their new studio. He was still remodeling the room they had planned to use in creating their coffee table books. She couldn't bear to go in.

They had estimated the first book would take at least a year, maybe two, before it was ready for publication. George joked about hiring a publicist for them, after they became famous enough to afford one.

It wasn't going to happen now, years of planning, and having great fun while doing it...all for nothing...wiped out...gone...in a moment. She tried to swallow the bitterness and make it go away. But it sat heavy on her heart, leaching its poison into the empty space previously occupied by her stolen dream.

Despite the heat, she momentarily forgot the suitcase and flopped down in front of the footlocker. Sweat beads formed on her forehead as she flipped open the latches. She raised the lid to a chest filled from bottom to top with photos, small boxes, and albums. The pictorial record of their entire life together, up to this point, was in that box. The oldest photos were on top. George must have been looking through them before he moved the little trunk from the spare room.

She lifted pictures from the locker and browsed through snapshots of happier days. There were photos of the two of them before they were married, a few from their wedding, and of their first home. It wasn't fancy, but they had been so happy. She smiled as she saw the picture of the first car they had bought together. They’d been so proud of that thing. Then came pictures of their baby girl and the business they had started and built. The baby had grown into a beautiful, successful, loving daughter. The business had folded.

Looking through the photos, she appreciated, once again, the life she and George had shared together. As photo after photo fell from her fingers back into the locker, she remembered to feel thankful. The burden of self-pity began to lift, and her heart began to thaw.

It didn’t matter where they were going this weekend. Nothing could replace the dream that had been stolen from them, but she knew that she needed to begin acting like the adult she was and accept their present circumstances for what they were.

George had.

And he deserved better than a grumbling, complaining, and ungrateful wife. It didn’t matter what the weekend held. She knew she would enjoy and treasure it--whatever it turned out to be--and add it to the photographic memories already stored away in the old foot-locker.

Her behavior of the past few months had been dreadful. And to make matters worse, she had taken her disappointment out on the one person she loved above all others. George. Her faithful George, who had been her loyal and loving husband for almost four decades.

Remorse bit deeply into her conscience.

“God forgive me,” she groaned, “I have been such a childish fool.”

Marilyn tucked her memories away, closed the lid on the trunk, then reached for the suitcase that was wedged just behind it. With a lighter heart, she dragged it down from the attic and carried it into their bedroom, where she laid it on the bed and opened it.

She would pack it full of anticipation for the upcoming weekend she now looked forward to.

She removed remnants from the last vacation: a letterhead note pad from the resort, some miniature lotions she had intended to use, coffee creamer and sugar packets she had neglected to take into the kitchen, and a handwritten itinerary from the trip.

She and George always created hand-written itineraries when they traveled, and two years ago, knowing it would be their last trip before her retirement, they had splurged and gone to Cancun. She didn't remember so many pages in the itinerary, but began scanning through page one, “Drive 5 hours to reach old Appalachia, eat only at Mom and Pop cafés if possible, and spend one night at Mountaintop Lodge.”

Wait a minute. This isn’t the itinerary for Cancun!

She flipped through the pages and saw dozens of unfamiliar entries, along with a personal note at the bottom of the last one.

Marilyn,

I had a dream too. A secret dream. I've been saving to buy a yacht. Sorry I never told you. I wanted to surprise you when we attended our first festival on the coast. But what good is money for a yacht if we can't fulfill the dream of our lifetime together? So, I choose us. We have the money for our Grand American Road Trip, and who knows, maybe we'll sell enough books to buy a yacht!

Pack for a month, Honey.

Love George