My wife likes to tell the story of how she woke me up one night by punching my arm.
We had just returned from a visit to the 1996 Summ e r Olympics in Atlanta, and that was still apparently fresh in her mind when she slugged me.
As is sometimes the case when physically assaulted while sleeping, I awoke.
“Wh- why did you hit me?” My eyes were barely open, but in the darkness of our bedroom, I could clearly see the red of her eyes.
“You know!,” she harshly bellowed, then immediately went back to sleep.
I didn’t, of course. So, a little gun shy, I got out of bed, found a broom, and from a safe distance, tapped her gently on the shoulder with the broom’s edge.
“Uh hum, wake up, please, and explain why you struck me,” I softly suggested.
After brushing her a couple of times, she awoke and offered an explanation.
She was dreaming that I was the coach of the U.S. Olympic basketball team, and, in her dream, I had succumbed to the advances of Heather Locklear.
In the dream (and also, ironically, in real life), Heather Locklear was a spy for the Russian basketball team, and was trying to get our “team secrets.” In our brief 2:35 a.m. conversation, my wife didn’t detail what secret or secrets I had given Heather Locklear.
I assume it was something like: “Hey, Heather, we have this player on our team. His name is Shaquille O’Neal. We’re going to pass him the ball a lot. Be on the lookout for that.”
Anyway, we had a good laugh about her absurd imagination.
“Next time you have a crazy dream, don’t punch me please,” I said as I eased back into my pillow. “You interrupted a good dream of mine.”
“What was yours about?” “Ice,” I said as I drifted back into the Land of Nod.
While she was having a nightmare about betrayal and international espionage, I was fantasizing about ice — which brings me to my belated point (you’re welcome). Here it is: I like ice.
But, as was the case in the interrupted dream of over a decade ago, ice satisfaction eludes me.
A couple of years ago, when we bought a new refrigerator with an icemaker, I thought my ice needs would be met for years to come. Not so.
Since we plugged in the refrigerator, the icemaker has produced frozen cubes of water very haphazardly. One week, the tray will be full with cubes, then it will go on vacation for two weeks. We have had repairmen look at it. We have checked this, checked that. Can’t find anything wrong with it. A couple of months ago, we figured out its wily ways.
Frustrated by the lack of edible ice, I went down to the local convenience store and purchased a bag — which, by the way, may be the softest ice (my preference) known to man. Then, I brought back the store-bought ice and placed it in the refrigerator freezer, next to the empty ice tray.
Within an hour, our icemaker miraculously started working again.
Fast forward two weeks. Same scenario. No ice in the tray, go down to the convenience store and purchase some store-bought ice — Voila! Ice starts flowing like wine into the tray.
In athletics, and in ice, the best motivation is competition.
Please don’t punch me. Even with spending $2 for a bag of ice once a week, I’m enjoying living this dream.
• Len Robbins is the editor of The Clinch County News. He can be reached at lrobbins@ clinchcounty news
