Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get.   -Mark Twain

Apparently my brain just did not have enough of Hurricane Florence. It has almost a week since the storm dropped historic amounts of rainfall across my state of North Carolina. All of that water must have gone to my head, because last night’s dream was quite the ride.

My sleep as of late has been a little disturbed, so I find myself dropping into REM quickly with little of the typical fanfare of sinking into the universal hum. The same held true for last night, when I was immediately thrust into a dream where I was an elderly woman in the basement of her grandson’s house. I looked like a typical grandmother in this dream, wearing white sneakers, simple light blue slacks, and a white blouse. I had some pretty killer horn-rimmed glasses and a faintly-blue-white beehive hairdo to top it all off.

Now, in this basement was an expansive model train set that was made to mimic various towns and areas of North Carolina, from coast to mountains. The grandson took great time and care in explaining to me, the grandmother, how the trains worked and how he had built the set by hand.

He excused himself to go start on dinner leaving me alone in the basement. As if possessed by some otherworldly spirit, I began to make whooshing wind noises and fetched a bucket of water that was just randomly sitting in the basement too. Every time I dumped the bucket onto the model, it would refill so I could dump more.

I danced around, cackling maniacally as I flooded the little model towns of Beaufort and Belhaven. I paused in my hydrophilic glee long enough to knock over trees and rip the roof of a house here and there before returning to my main mission. A little sing-song began to come from my lips as I made merry with the work. Within a few minutes, the power to the trains had shorted out, and the entire structure was covered in at least 3 inches of standing water. Fences had be pried from their felted green pastures. Wilmington was plagued by downed trees and lines. Even the Sandhills and Piedmont were not saved from the wrath of Granny.

Just as I was about to turn my sights to the mountains, I heard a wail from behind me.

“Grandma Florence, what are you doing?”

To say that the grandson was upset would be an understatement, but I was spared from seeing that aftermath by waking up.

If anyone wants to take a stab at what that might mean, please let me know in the comments!

Best wishes and sweet dreams,

-Megan