Paul Richardson: If you don't move off the dream, you'll never get the tent built

(Paul Richardson's column, The Horse I Rode In On, is featured weekly in the Neosho Daily News, the Seneca News-Dispatch and on the Turner Report.)

Sometimes it is strange, the little things that can trigger memories.

I laid back on our bed this morning and was staring at the ceiling. Immediately above my head were seven little pin holes. It was then that the memories returned. The origin of those pin holes occurred about sixteen years ago. The good wife was at some meeting or training somewhere in the middle of the state. Jefferson City, Columbia, Lake of the Ozarks, I can’t recall, but the circumstances meant that I and our grandson would be on our own for three or four days. 

With grandma out of town, the grandson always assumed that he would move from his room and join me in the “big” bed. And so, he did. 

With the good wife gone, I had bigger plans for the little guy. Taking a couple flat sheets and some push pins I constructed the grandest tent-fort imaginable. Using the four massive corner posts of our bed and securing the sheet to the ceiling above the center of the bed, it was easy to enclose the sleeping area with the covering. 

Now the imagination could run wild. It could be a tent. It could be a mosquito netting that would protect us from the massive insects that were attacking as we sat in some tropical forest. It could be the netting above the bed from which we could view the African Savannah through the windows along the outer walls. So much could be imagined.

So, it is with life and community. Much can be imagined. Dreams and imaginings are a beginning, but the only thing that counts is that which is completed. That’s the way life works. It doesn’t matter whether it is our personal life, business, civic organization, club, church or community, this concept of emerging from a dream to a vision that grows into a plan which when followed becomes a reality is the key. The reality is the substance that memories is made of. If you don’t move off the dream, you will never get the tent built!

Dreams can begin in some unlikely places. One of the best things about riding is the alone time one experiences in the saddle. Alone time is good for one’s soul. Our lives are so busy in today’s culture that I don’t think we experience enough alone time. Alone time is good for reflection, dreaming, imagining, and prayer. Yes, I said prayer. 

Most people don’t realize it, but most bikers are real prayer warriors. When you are willing to take on the level of risk that will place you in a situation where everything around you can cause your death, you find out that one tends to pray a lot! 

Sure, there are some that throw caution to the wind and do all kinds of crazy things. They make bad decisions and then decide to throw their leg over a saddle, place a motor between their legs and take off on something that can’t even stand up by itself. Often these end up in a bad situation. They forgot to pray and much less to reflect, dream or imagine.

A lot of dreams develop while rolling across the miles. One of the things I forgot to mention is that this is also a good place to recall memories. Sitting there nice and alone, with wind blowing across my face, I can recall the memories of using push pins to secure sheets to the ceiling in order to build a tent indoors.

There are so many memories. Some have commented that I have too many stories, casting doubt on the validity of my murmurings. My response is that if one has led an active and colorful life, you don’t have any need to make things up. There are lots of stories. Most are memories, a couple might have just been dreams. Dreams that never made it to the vision stage, much less the reality stage. 

I wouldn’t pass them off as anything more than what they really are. The good wife would never hesitate to throw me under the bus on an action like that. She maintains the options to review and edit everything. She has even designated certain stories to have a “never tell that one” status. Memories that she would prefer to remain “in house”. She is the keeper of the history.

As you follow these rambling wanderings, never fear, if I mention the good wife or my dear mother, they know what is being sent to be published. It has already passed a review, some have been edited or changes may have just been insisted on, but it was pronounced “good to go” by someone other than me. While my life may have been active and somewhat colorful, it was not “willie nellie” with no controls. That, my friend, is why I am still alive!