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My first memory is of having a nightmare. I remember I'm in my crib crying because there's a horrible siren and painfully flashing lights. I want the lights and the siren to go away, but it won't. So, all I can do is cry. Then my Mom comes into my room and put s me on her lap as we both rock to the dawn in her rocking chair. I can see both my Mom and myself clearly, so either I was looking in a mirror or I was having a nightmare. Looking back in hindsight, I'd opt that it was a nightmare.

Not Allowed To Tell

At first, I told my parents all about my nightmares when they shook me awake. I think perhaps they read a book somewhere that said talking about nightmares helps reduce the fear.

Not for me.

I have nightmares at least twice a week since that time in the crib over thirty years ago. When a nightmare woke me up, I'd run to my parents' room. It took me a couple of years to realize that whenever I ran in the room screaming that I had a nightmare, my Dad would creep out and leave me and my reports of the latest nocturnal apparition to Mom.

Finally, over breakfast one morning when I was in Middle School, telling Mom about a nightmare that somehow involved exploding Doberman Pinschers, Mom reached a breaking point. I wasn't allowed to tell her my nightmares anymore. When I asked why, she replied, "Because I never had bad dreams until you started telling me yours!"

JFK Dreams

Every late November, around the anniversary of President Kennedy's assassination, I'd get nightmares. Perhaps I picked up on the national vibe. Perhaps I read too much into my history books who knows. But since I'd been banned from telling Mom about my nightmares (and somehow, Dad always was too busy to listen to my nightmares) I had no one else to tell them to except my classmates.

I was never a popular student and one year, my JFK nightmares sealed my reputation among my classmates. I think I was voted "most likely to make you puke" or something close to it. My nightmares were never incredibly gorey or graphic just creepy. Or maybe it was the way I told it. Who knows my classmates aren't talking.

I can't quite remember those JFK nightmares, but I do remember one - being at Dallas in 1963 on that fateful day. The bullets hit JFK so hard that he was blown out of the car and landed at my feet. I knew he was dying and he looked very scared. I told him he was a good man and then he died.

Looking back, I don't think it was a very scary dream. However, in one week, I had three classmates and one history teacher come up to me and blame me for giving them nightmares.
I wonder if this is how Stephen King started.

Learn more about this author, Rena Sherwood.
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