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I ignore them, as I tend to do still. Then Hitler appears. The war isn't over. The Third Reich is in London, my Danish daughter is in danger, the Nazis have the A-bomb, so I drag myself back to the torments of the playground, a sweet slender boy with nicely combed hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
And the thought leaps out at me: I was so nice, am I gay? Gay men are terribly nice, you know. By the age of 79, a man should know the answer, but my mind rolls it around. I decide I'm not, having had many girlfriends and no boyfriends. Also, I spill and I have no fashion sense. I could pass for a homeless person.
Now it's three a.m. I had evacuated the marital bed out of simple courtesy, lest Hitler awaken my wife, and now I return, silently, like a thief, and the silence awakens her.
"Can I go back to sleep?" she says. She is the designated worrier in the family. She listens to the radio at night, to drive worry away, but it's the BBC so she lies awake worrying about codfishermen and Lebanon and Prince Harry and Meghan.
I've always been a good sleeper but am quite awake at three and so is she, I can tell by the way she sighs. I wonder if insomnia is contagious. I wonder if in her mind it's 1992 and she's walking into that restaurant to meet me for the first time and spots me, tall, unkempt and yet pretentious, and thinks, "Oh no. Get me out of here. Not this."
It's a wild night, like the bumper cars at the state fair, memories crashing around, I walk down the Mall of the U of M campus and I skip my Milton class and decide to major in folk music instead, the CEO who fired me and was himself dismissed is hitchhiking in the rain and my right front wheel hits the mud puddle exactly right and turns him dark brown from toes to crown, I am offered the Nobel Prize, which I decline with a very noble speech about equality in the arts.
I guess I slept some. I awoke at nine. It's ten-thirty now. I've had breakfast with my wife who is extremely funny describing her niece's two children, a smart boy and a popular girl, fighting a guerilla war, and then she leaves for Boston where I'll join her tomorrow.
On her way out, she gives me detailed instructions, which I should write down but do not, choosing to live dangerously. And it dawns on me that since nine o'clock, I have been deliriously happy. Insomnia is supposed to leave you exhausted and depressed. I hear my mother saying, "You work too hard, you need your sleep." She lay awake many a night, worrying about us six kids, she told me so when she was old. Then added, "But you were worth it."
I think the mind needs now and then to be released from a lifetime of harness and who needs LSD when hallucinations come to you naturally? It was a wild night and as I write it down I'm aware that I'm remembering only a few slivers of it. It makes me wonder about the little defibrillator that the cardiologist installed in my chest a couple weeks ago: is there a secret feature of it that twice a month like clockwork stimulates the brain to take free flight in the universe. If so, I guess I am in favor, though I'd rather the brain did this of its own accord.
It's good to get off the racetrack and resume normal life. Hitler was defeated. Life is good. The sun shines and we rise from our tangled beds and resume our purposes in the world. The blessed America will survive the festivals of dismay and rise to the challenge of the century, which is to save the planet from ourselves. Thank you, Irving Berlin, for writing that great song.
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Garrison Keillor is an author and radio personality. His latest book is "The Lake Wobegon Virus: A Novel". Buy it at a 33% discount! by clicking here. Sales help fund JWR.