These visions of Amherst occ-U-py my miind!

The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain
- "Visions of Johanna" by Bob Dylan (Wha?)

I received a rather unexpected and exhilarating gift from my subconscious the other day. I was happily dozing in my comfy bed, dreaming the usual. You know, quarterbacking Boise State to the Master of the Universe Bowl Championship. I was standing alongside Coach Pete on the victory podium as he hoisted the trophy, which depicted He-Man stabbing his mighty sword high toward the heavens, and proclaimed, "This one, once again, is for you Bronco Na-tion!," when my pesky alarm clock ruined everything. Suddenly I was ripped away from a victory celebration in front of thousands of adoring fans and plopped down in my dark bedroom where two extremely excited dogs waited to greet me by jumping up and down on my belly.

I was wiping my eyes and trying to gather my senses when it happened. In an instant my mind filled with crystal-clear images of a house, a playroom, a backyard, a swing set. Each image flashed through my mind in slideshow fashion. My drowsy self struggled to identify these images. What were they? Why were they so familiar?

Suddenly it hit me.

My mind was showing me pictures of our old house on Amherst Drive. The house I lived in as a little boy. The house where I learned to ride a bike, discovered the Transformers, and spent hours dressing up like Boy George (don't ask). The house where I spent my kindergarten and early elementary school days. It was all right there in my mind's eye, as clear as if we lived there yesterday. I could suddenly picture it all.

And I couldn't believe it.

My early childhood memories have always been fuzzy at best. I remember a bike here, a clubhouse there, but nothing substantial. I've always struggled to remember exactly what the house on Amherst looked like. What the rooms were like. The yard. My old bedroom. It's all gobbledygook in my brain. Unlike April, who remembers everything she's ever experienced or said since she was three years old, I've always struggled to remember anything about my early childhood. It's not like I had a terrible upbringing and my mind is repressing anything. I had a tremendously happy childhood with two of the greatest parents of all time (in my biased opinion). I just have a terrible memory. Plain and simple.

But for a few moments that morning I was there. I saw it all. Every breathtaking detail.

I saw the front yard with a giant evergreen tree (although I'm sure my little boy perspective is making the tree seem much larger than it really was). Walking in the front door, I saw a living room on my right. You go down a step (watch out for the large plant that shocks you silly should your arm graze its leaves) and enter the room featuring two large orange recliners and massive open windows letting rays of sun shine through. This was my Star Trek room. I transformed this unassuming little space into the bridge of the Starship Enterprise and used one of the recliners as the captain's chair, because it swiveled just like Captain Kirk's.

Stepping out of the living room and back into the main hallway, I walked through the kitchen and into a large playroom. Homemade shelves and a bench line the back wall. This was the Boy George room. I would dress up like Boy George and Elvis Presley and sing along with the records. My sister Melissa, who was just a toddler at the time, would listen and clap when I executed my rousing finale. I would toss scarves to her just like Elvis and she would pretend to swoon.

A door in the corner of the playroom leads outside to the back yard. I could see my beloved swing set, along with the shed. It was a small yard, but I remember running through the sprinkler and playing in the clubhouse Dad helped me build. I could see it all. I was there.

There were other visions, but I wasn't able to secure them all in my sleepy state. They faded back into my subconscious. I sincerely hope they reappear some day for another slideshow down memory lane.

I want to thank my subconscious for a truly remarkable experience. I've struggled all my adult life to recall those images, and in a few breathtaking seconds I saw everything and more. My childhood came back to me in all its wide-eyed wonder. It was beautiful.

In this case, I guess those annoying commercials are right. Some gifts truly are priceless.

Hang on to those special memories, kiddies.

- Dave