The other night I had a dream about my Uncle Billy who has been gone for many years. And for many years prior to that he was confined to a wheelchair and bed, a result of strokes and heart attacks. Turns out eating too much good Southern food, smoking like a chimney, and drinking far too much alcohol on a daily basis isn't all that good for you health. I don't often dream of the dead, and I tend to treasure those few dreams.
My Uncle Billy, aka Fat Man, was a larger than life character to me. He threw his vices around like they were virtues. He cursed freely - then always apologized for doing so but you knew he didn't really mean it. He made big promises I knew he wouldn't keep, but the words themselves made me feel better (he promised me my own white Stetson when I became enamoured of his; he gave me his card and promised to pick me up at the airport in Dallas if I ever need to escape from my parents). My dad's family has produced more than its share of storytellers - a tendency I've inherited but perhaps without the talent - and Billy was the loudest, most outrageous of them all.
In my dream he was talking to my dad, his "baby brother". And when I approached them, he hugged me, told me he'd missed me and loved me. He suggested that we needed to spend more time together. He was himself but perhaps toned down a bit from my childhood memories of him. It was such a little thing, not some big production, but it made me feel happy when I woke up, like maybe, just maybe Uncle Billy is watching out for me. Even if it's only from a perch in my own memory.
Illness update: Took Quake to the doctor Tuesday morning - he has strep throat!
Pregnancy Issues: Coffee suddenly tastes better than my beloved tea. Wtf?