When I was young, fourteen or so, I was a volunteer at South Street Seaport Museum in lower Manhattan. At one of the local eat/drinkeries worked a young man, really just a few years older than me.

Talk about crushes! I had a crush on him all through high school, and he gave me my sweet-sixteen kiss, which meant a lot to me. I actually spent my sixteenth birthday in St. Louis, dealing with the aftermath of my grandmother’s sudden death.

Flash-forward and that girl is soon to be 49.

49 doesn’t bother me at all. I’m looking forward to it and I’m looking forward to fifty.

But social networking exacts a price to be paid when you find people after years of separation and silence. Oh and unlimited text messaging, who could forget that?

I lost track of my crush around 1986. He had moved to Maine, and I went up there to visit him once or twice. He didn’t ask me to stay, and I didn’t. I moved here, to St. Louis, instead.

2010 brought Facebook contact. Occasional notes, “Hi, how are you?” And then more complicated notes, and texts and

And suddenly, feelings that had been carefully put away like a pressed corsage come out again, rudely and demandingly.

But that’s not what I came to tell you about, Arlo Guthrie once remarked.

I came to talk about dreams. Dreams is what the girl of sweet-sixteen once had when the crush of her young life kissed her. Dreams is what she had when she travelled to see him in another state. Dreams is what she tucked away when he didn’t ask her to stay, and she moved and began a new life in the opposite direction.

I don’t Dream anymore. Oh, sure, I dream when I sleep; I just don’t Dream about Tomorrow, I don’t Dream about Happily-Ever-After.

I live here and now. I like here and now.


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