Three dreams for Hallowe’en.
by Elizabeth C. Creely
February 19, 1998
The Family of the Rotten Potato
I’m in a kitchen which is bright and full of sunny yellow formica and other people, whose faces I cannot see. The perspective is that of a child, sat at a table and waiting, as adult bodies bustle around me, getting, placing, working: all the absent-minded, purposeful movements of women (I think) in the kitchen doing the work of home. They are cheerful and content, and the kitchen itself is good, a warm, clean place, fine and bright. I sit, waiting. Someone is going to give me something.
Someone puts a plate in front of me. Placed on it is one potato. The outside is fine, but on the inside, there is a big ugly blot of black rot. It’s a sickly little white potato that is rotten. And it has been given to me. I look around to see if anyone has noticed what I’ve been given, what I’ve almost eaten. I feel an excited pride, and no disgust, and no horror. I want the other busy bodies in the kitchen to notice what has been given to me: a rotten potato. I belong to the family of the putrid tuber. I am happy about this.
(I have no pictures of the Púca. Sorry)
I am relaxing in a bathtub, which is filled with pleasantly hot water and, I realize in a slow fade of comprehension, dirt. And earthworms. I am in submerged in an warm, earthen soup. There are other things, too, one of which looks very much like a very large coelacanth—a pre-historic walking fish, with stiff fins that looks as if it’s been made from seaweed. This walking fish wants out, and so I oblige it by unlatching the door. It walks and as it walks, it changes.
Whatever force is directing its transformation—which is rapid and whirling—it is a force fixed on its own event horizon, and has nothing to do with me. It passes me and steps outside, moving with determination, away from the bathroom and down the hall.
I walk into the kitchen and, lo and behold, my dead Dad strolls in. He is much younger than he was when he died. His eyebrows are black and sharp, and his green eyes vivid and direct. (He almost never makes guest appearances in my dreams, because he doesn’t believe in this stuff).
I say, complainingly, “Dad! What’s happening?” He directs his sharp gaze on me and he replies, “It’s the Púca. That’s what has caused everything”. I realize he is referring to the large walking fish (and maybe himself, too? with his newfound alacrity and sharp waggling eyebrows and a warning way to him, which is also….light-hearted, and mischievous. Does he mean the fish?)
That isn’t what I thought that was, I think. I thought that was a coelacanth. Welp. Better investigate. At that, I go outside and find the Púca, which has made a shelter for itself under a small grassy knoll in the front yard. It is still fishy-looking, but is starting to look like a young woman, with direct and friendly eyes. We are friendly towards each other, and speak to each other in general pleasantries. I decide to show hospitality to it; to aid it. It is vulnerable and needs things: acknowledgment, food. And wine. Which I brought.
(And then my waking mind asserted itself, and asked me to reflect on what it might mean to have one of the “gentry” living in a cave, located on my imaginary front lawn. In my ancestral world, fairies are not things to cozy up to. They have their world and we have ours, and although there is a magical tradition that seeks traverse the two worlds, I myself follow the way of my ancestors and prefer to treat them with, to quote Eddie Lenihan, the great seanchaithe of County Claire, with a mixture of “respect, doubt, fear, hesitation, and conviction.” I will always offer hospitality when it is called for and avoidance when it is wise.
In any case, I woke up. As far as I know, the Púca is still there, lonely, but well-provisioned.
When I was eight years old
When I was eight, my great-Grandmother Florence Cerini Creely, whose portrait hangs in the living room of my apartment, introduced herself to me in a dream and we have been friends ever since.
We met in the South Coast Plaza mall, which had just been built and was not the agonizingly glitzy space it is now. In my dream, I sat in a bench, with my hands in my lap in a posture of waiting patience. The light was soft and bright. Florence walked over to me and sat down. I looked up at her. I saw a kind and gentle lady, who was much older, but in a soft, plump, elegant way: there was no wasting of her bones, no harsh marks of age on her face. Her hair was coiffed and softly white and she was dressed the way women used to dress to go out shopping; to be seen in public. I looked up at her, like children look at grandparents, with respect and deference and attention. She spoke to me, and we talked for some time in that bright place. There is no dialogue that I carried back with me, no remembered scrap of information, other than she was Florence, my great-grandmother and she was there specifically to meet me. And that she loved me.
Here is a small, quick story that my grandfather Bunster swore was true. When he was young, Bunster and his friends liked to jump on freight trains passing through Berkeley and ride on them for short trips throughout Alameda County. (He was not supposed to do this.) Florence came to him one night as he was laying down to go to sleep. “Bunny,” she said. “Your father came to me last night and told me you have been jumping on the trains again. You know you are not supposed to do this.” The rebuke was coming from a dead man: Bunny’s father (my great-grandfather) suffered a major heart attack in 1916 and died straightway. Bunny never rode the freight trains again.
Firenze Maria Cerini—her name was Americanized later— my Italian/Irish nonna died in 1950 in Piedmont, CA at the age of 80, fifteen years before I was born. But I have always known her. And this is because she has always been spoken of and remembered with love. Her gentle soul has stayed with us.
This is how I know that this saying is true: what is remembered, lives.
October 31, 2016
Oiche Shamhna Shona Daoibh. Happy New Year. Open your doors, light your lanterns and go on a cuaird with your beloved dead. Just remember to come back. Boo!