The mall was more crowded than usual when I walked in. (I’m never quite sure how the stores in this place stay in business.) But busy or not, it was easy to spot a little girl of maybe two or three a short distance away to my right, holding onto her grandmother’s hand as she walked. She moved with that determined little march kids have when they realize how well they can navigate on two feet. But when I stopped to adjust my purse strap, I realized that her march had a set destination: me.

The little girl kept her eyes on me as she weaved through shoppers to come closer. She never stopped moving. Without a word, she grasped my hand and kept walking, not missing a beat. “Hello,” I said, falling into step beside her. The grandmother cleared her throat, at an uncomfortable loss for words. “I don’t mind,” I told her. “I’m heading to Trader Joe’s anyway.”

“We’re going to the parking lot,” the grandmother replied, clearly relieved that there would be a natural ending to this odd encounter.

The child stared at me as we walked hand-in-hand past stores, never loosening her grip or changing the solemn expression on her face. I imagine we looked a little silly walking as a linked threesome through the mall, but I didn’t see any reason to disengage.

“Thank you for the walk,” I told the little girl when we reached the doors to outside. “I’m going to the grocery store, now. I hope you have a very nice day.”

She let go of my hand. I waved. She waved back. Then we turned in opposite directions and left.

Never mind the cuteness factor; I appreciated the human contact. I don’t get enough of that these days.

I like face-to-face interactions with people, and those experiences are getting harder to find. I avoid self-checkouts in stores whenever I can, even though standing in line for the one or two checkout lanes still manned by real people means a longer wait. That’s okay. How else would I hear about the cashier’s surprise eightieth birthday party (and be impressed by the fact that this square-dancing grandmama is decades older than I thought she was). There’s no other way to meet the young man who knows so much about jazz, classic rock, and whiskey and who always lightens my day with a seemingly sincere compliment. And where else would I find the gentleman whose curmudgeonly comments reveal more about his interesting past than he realizes? Getting in and out of a place as quickly as possible is seldom my goal.

I don’t like crowds (and my definition of “crowd” has a low threshold), but I do appreciate opportunities for exchanges with people who … well, aren’t me. How do we learn to appreciate other people if we obliterate our chances to deal with them in everyday life? Online communication isn’t enough.

Kids need that human connection, too. I’m not sure what this says about me, but I still have fond memories of childhood lollipops from bank tellers who weren’t ATMs and book recommendations from librarians who either checked out my new stack of books or checked in the ones I returned. I remember the reminders to say good morning, please, thank-you.

My little friend’s grasp reminded me that despite a barrage of internet/text messages and the convenience of breezing more quickly through automated errands, something inside us still longs to just reach out and grab someone’s hand. We haven’t evolved beyond an innate need for physical human contact.

I hope we never do.

Twenty-four different colors (although two different yellows and one barely-there orange don’t count, because what’s the point of ink you can’t see?)! Extra-fine point! Less than .75 cents a pen! I scooped them up without a second thought.

They haven’t disappointed. They’re fun to use. But now that I’ve had the opportunity to study them more closely, I can see that their colors were named by someone either with different color concepts from mine or for whom English is not a first language. There’s Ruddy Pink, which is as languid and pale as a pink can be without disappearing, despite the fact that “ruddy” means “red.” There’s Magenta, which would make sense if the ink was not obviously brown. There’s Grass Green, which my eye insists is Olive. There’s Moss Green, which looks like it belongs next to Magenta on the pen color wheel.

Don’t get me wrong. I love these colors. I just don’t understand them.

This got me thinking about the Crayola crayon colors I remember growing up. Maize, Raw Umber, Violet Blue … I loved those guys. But according to Crayola.com, those colors were retired in 1990 along with Blue Gray, Green Blue, Lemon Yellow, Orange Red, and Orange Yellow. They were replaced by colors with snazzier names: Cerulean, Dandelion, Fuschia, Jungle Green, Royal Purple, Teal Blue, Vivid Tangerine, and Wild Strawberry. (Don’t worry about the older colors – they’re enjoying a cushy retirement in the Crayola Hall of Fame.)

At least I can visualize those new 1990 colors. I don’t do as well with some of the colors added later. Exactly what color IS “Inchworm” (introduced in 2003)? My mind’s eye does better with more recent colors like Macaroni and Cheese, Mango Tango, Outer Space, and Purple Mountains’ Majesty.

There are different reasons why certain Crayola colors are retired. Crayola started making crayons in 1903, after all. Back then, maybe it was easier to envision colors like Permanent Geranium Lake (seems like a lot to print on the side of a crayon), Chrome Green (which came in Light and Medium), and Van Dyke Brown (huh?). Sometimes, a color gets booted after fans vote it out of the box to make room for a new one (which sounds like a reality show to me). Some colors stay on and are simply renamed. Prussian Blue became the first renamed color in 1958, changing to Midnight Blue after teachers pointed out that their students no longer related to Prussia. The color Flesh became Peach in 1962, reflecting Crayola’s recognition that not all skin tones are the same.

Crayola has created over 400 colors over the years. There’s a shade for every mood, and many of them come in neon and glitter versions. Despite this huge selection, past surveys indicate that the favorite Crayola color is … blue.

Consumers can get involved with naming new colors through various promotions. If the thought of this stirs your creative juices, check in at Crayola.com now and then.

Or you can just contact the people who made my pens. They could probably use the help.

My daughters and I are on the fourth day of what will become our first cross-country road trip. Armed with maps and Triptiks, we’re traveling from Baltimore to San Francisco, down the California coast, and back through the southwest part of the country. In an era before GPS technology, whoever rides shotgun knows they’re responsible for emergency navigation help should the driver (me) need it. I’m not, however, a road-trip novice. My father’s love for road tripping (combined with his natural curiosity about cultures and history) means that my childhood was filled with them.

We’re only about an hour and fifteen minutes out of Omaha, our stop for the night. So, following the now-ubiquitous road signs, we veer onto IA-173 N in search of the Danish Windmill.

Part of Dad’s job with AAA involved mapping out Triptik routes for AAA members who’d ordered them. With no computers to reference, Dad used road maps and memory to carefully mark each route in yellow highlighter. We used to joke that if there was a gas station at some remote intersection in Wyoming, Dad knew about it and used it as a landmark. All of this means I have full faith in a map’s ability to get us to and from any place we want to go.

The Danish Windmill feels a lot farther than the signs promised (“Just off I-80!”). It probably doesn’t take even fifteen minutes, but not knowing where you are tends to elongate time. The signs, however, seem even more excited (YOU’RE SO CLOSE!).

Finally, as promised, the Danish Windmill appears on our left.

It’s exactly what it says it is: a Danish Windmill. It’s the only working Danish windmill in the U.S.–a fact that doesn’t surprise me, because how many Danish windmills can there be in the U.S? But, of course, there’s more to the story. We learn that Elk Horn, Iowa is home to the largest Danish population in the U.S. (who knew?). We also learn how the windmill ended up in Iowa.

Back in 1975, one of Elk Horn’s residents visited Denmark. He already had a passion for windmills, and it concerned him to discover that the old windmills there were falling into disrepair. Hoping to save one for posterity (and benefit his home community as well), he spearheaded a project to dismantle an 1848 windmill in Denmark, ship it to the U.S., and reassemble it in Elk Horn. (You can read about it here.) The reconstructed windmill now anchors a museum complex that provides education about and preservation of Danish culture.

The windmill isn’t working on the day we visit, but it does its job: we leave knowing more than we did when we arrived.

The drive back to I-80 feels quicker than the trip to the windmill did. We’ve traveled this patch of road before, so we know what to expect. Still, I value the disorientation I felt when we first pulled off the highway. Seemingly endless cornfields, an unfamiliar roll to the land, signs for different foods, brands, businesses … aspects of Iowa are as different from back east as Denmark is.

I confess to occasionally rolling my eyes when Dad showed us how to follow our daily road-trip route on a Triptik or made me stop reading in the back seat to look at an interesting landmark or beautiful scenery. If we were driving to Quebec, he told us the history of French Canada. If we were passing through Lancaster County, we learned about the Amish. Sometimes, I was mostly thinking about what I’d order for dinner when we stopped for the night. I didn’t yet appreciate the shift of perspective that travel can ignite.

But I know, now. It’s illuminating to feel “other” now and then, to explore a place where you have more questions than answers. A map can get you there, but the rest is up to you.

Thanks, Dad.

Despite this, I bet you still had to go to work today. That may be because none of the holidays I mentioned are federal holidays.

There are eleven federal holidays recognized in the U.S., holidays the states are not required to observe but mostly do. Those federal holidays were either designated by congress or by presidential proclamation.

(Because you never know if there will be a huge prize waiting for people who know this stuff, I’ll list the federal holidays at the end of this post. Go ahead — jot them down right now. See how you do.)

August 30th is also National College Colors Day and National Beach Day.

Bet you didn’t get a card. That’s understandable; today’s holidays aren’t Hallmark holidays, either.

Hallmark holidays are defined as holidays that seem to exist more for commercial than commemorative reasons. Their primary celebration involves sending a card or flowers. Often a special meal is involved. Hallmark holidays include old favorites such as Mother’s Day (first celebrated in 1908, established as a national holiday in 1914) and Father’s Day (first celebrated in 1910, but not a national holiday until 1972), along with fresher upstarts like Grandparents Day (1978) and Nurses’ Day (1982). One national Hallmark holiday was actually proposed by the founder of Hallmark cards back in 1930. Joyce Hall thought that Friendship Day would encourage people to send caring cards to their friends. In 1935, congress agreed with the sentiment and proclaimed the first Sunday in August as National Friendship Day.

Some Hallmark holiday lists include Groundhog’s Day. I have never received a Groundhog’s Day card, but they’re out there. So are celebratory recipes made of exactly what you think. Don’t invite me. (People can be so harsh with that six-more-weeks-of-winter thing.)

Don’t worry. If you believe strongly that something deserves attention, you can register your own national holiday at nationaldayarchives.com. You’ll choose from three levels of listings. Perks for the top-of-the-line premium choice include a permanent listing on the National Day Archives Master Calendar and a permanent web page linked to your day. All you need to do is fill out an application form and pay the fee.

There’s a day for almost everything. According to the website, the most popular national holidays include National Drink Wine Day on Feb. 18th (duh), National Coffee Day on Sept. 29th (double duh), and National Catcher’s Day on Feb. 2 (a little baffling since Feb. 2nd isn’t even baseball season).

Although many of the holidays registered through the National Day Archives seem lighthearted, some commemorate events or histories that are often overlooked (August 30th is also National Black Beauty Founders Day, National Grief Awareness Day, and National Screen Time Awareness Day). But no matter what the apparent tone, each holiday is heartfelt. Even National Drinking with Chickens Day (May 23rd).

The problem seems less proclaiming a national holiday than finding one that hasn’t already been taken. Even National Create a New National Day Day is unavailable (June 21st).

Fortunately, National Blogging Day is still out there, ripe for the picking.

Wishing everyone a safe Labor Day weekend!

The eleven national federal holidays are (in order of yearly appearance) New Year’s Day (est. 1870), Martin Luther King Day (1983), Presidents’ Day (est. in 1879 as George Washington’s Birthday), Memorial Day (est. 1888 as Decoration Day), Juneteenth (2021), Independence Day (1870), Labor Day (1894), Columbus Day (1968), Veterans Day (est. in 1938 as Armistice Day, name changed in 1954), Thanksgiving Day (1870), and Christmas Day (1870).

James Thorne Smith Jr. was born on March 27, 1892 at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. His father was a Navy commodore, his mother the granddaughter of Maxwell House Coffee namesake Don Jose Maxwell. Thorne was an indifferent boarding school student, enjoying only his English classes, and he eventually dropped out of Dartmouth to take a job writing advertising copy. While advertising would help support his family, his true love was writing. He was prolific, too, turning out thirteen novels, poetry, a children’s book, short stories, and a few screenplays, all in the space of seventeen years. He achieved immediate success in 1926 with the publication of his most well-known work, Topper (also known as The Jovial Ghosts), a comic fantasy novel involving ghosts who think nothing of helping their chosen human break several laws and commandments in search for the meaning of life.

Reprobate-in-training or not, it’s easy to identify with a Thorne Smith protagonist He’s usually under-appreciated and stifled, trapped in a thankless existence by a combination of societal expectations and overbearing relatives. He needs help learning to enjoy life, and the supernatural meddling that helps him along this path comes in the form of comical circumstances and clever dialogue. Our protagonist emerges a happier–though thoroughly tainted–soul by the end of the story, ready to reject the world’s hypocrisy. Although the storylines are inviting (who wouldn’t want to spend a little time “falling” through no fault of their own?), it’s Smith’s voice that’s the real draw. He’s witty and dry, and his humorous observations about human nature remain as spot-on now as when first written almost a century ago.

Thorne Smith died of a heart attack in 1934 at the age of 42, well before many of his books (including both Topper books, Nightlife of the Gods, Turnabout, and I Married a Witch) hit the big screen. But even if his name is no longer well-known, his impact on popular culture continues. Various iterations of very human ghosts in movies such as Heaven Can Wait, Beetlejuice, and Ghost owe him a debt. Before Thorne Smith, most supernatural beings arrived to scare, plague, or redeem you. Smith’s entities would far rather corrupt your morals with an abundance of selfish charm.

But perhaps the ghost should speak for himself. Here’s a visit from Topper‘s ghostly George Kerby, materializing before the stunned Cosmo Topper with a customary bottle of Prohibition hooch in each hand:

Kerby cut him short with a laugh and moved over to the fireplace.

“You still believe in ghost stories, I see,” he said, good-humouredly. “Well, I’m all here, every inch of me. Never felt better in my life. Shake. I’m glad you see me.”

“I’m overjoyed I do,” replied Mr. Topper, gingerly accepting the proffered hand. “Would you mind opening one or both of those bottles? A drop of something would help a lot.”

“Topper, I love you,” whispered Kerby, hurrying away in the gloom.

Considered ribald back when written, but kind of quaint now.

“I was deeply disappointed.”

It’s “crummy.”

Ouch. Hardly the responses movie directors want after a screening. Worse, these comments didn’t come from random viewers, but from the authors of the books on which each film was based. (Which author said which is noted at the end of this post.)

Although authors dream of sharing their stories on the big screen, it’s also a scary proposition. Most authors retain very little control over the film version of their work. This isn’t for lack of trying: E.L. James (Fifty Shades of Grey) sought approval of actors, production staff, and production decisions, yet still walked away with only script approval and very little creative control; P.L. Travers (Mary Poppins) had script approval, but her edits were mostly ignored; Ayn Rand hated the final version of The Fountainhead even though she herself had written the screenplay. All the legal wrangling in the world can’t change the fact that for an author, giving up any amount of control over a book is an emotional event. It’s no wonder that so much can–and does–disappoint.

That disappointment can start with the casting of characters who are almost like family to the authors who created them. Here are a few instances where authors longed to save their characters from the Hollywood treatment:

Despite their friendship, P.L. Travers felt that Julie Andrews’s Mary Poppins was a “betrayal” of the character. As written, “Poppins” is plain, odd, and a little frightening. At least Travers didn’t fault Andrews for the more saccharine finished product: “[Andrews] was quite prepared to put on a black wig, with a knob of hair at the back … But to her surprise, as well as mine, Disney turned [Poppins] into a very pretty girl, which really loses the point.”

Stephen King would have preferred Jon Voight, Christopher Reeve, or Michael Moriarty in the role of The Shining‘s Jack Torrance. He feared that casting Jack Nicholson made the character psychopathic from the start instead of allowing a descent into madness. King also objected to Shelley Duvall as Wendy, feeling that she projected too much emotional vulnerability to play a character he’d always considered a blonde cheerleader type.

Poor Jack Nicholson. Ken Kesey hated on him, too, and would have cast Gene Hackman over him as McMurphy in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Anne Rice (Interview with The Vampire) had plenty to say when Tom Cruise was cast in the role of Lestat. She thought the choice “bizarre”: “[He is] … no more my Vampire Lestat than Edward G. Robinson is Rhett Butler.” First choices for the role were Daniel Day Lewis (who didn’t want to play a vampire) and Jeremy Irons (who was deemed too old).

Roald Dahl (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) lobbied hard for comedian/writer Spike Milligan to play Willy Wonka, and found Gene Wilder’s interpretation “pretentious” and “bouncy.”

Ian Fleming was horrified when 31-year-old Scotsman Sean Connery was cast as James Bond, considering the rough-edged actor the antithesis of his smooth, refined protagonist. Fleming preferred either Cary Grant or David Niven in the role.

Truman Capote condemned Breakfast at Tiffany’s as “the most miscast” film he’d ever seen. The Holly Golightly of his book was a tough character, nowhere near an Audrey Hepburn type. He’d wanted the role to go to his friend, Marilyn Monroe, and later said that Jodie Foster would have been perfect to play Holly as he’d written her.

So, how did these casting choices work out?

Julie Andrews and Jack Nicholson (One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest) won Academy Awards for best actress/actor. Audrey Hepburn was nominated for an Academy Award. Gene Wilder earned a Golden Globe nomination for best actor. In addition, a few authors had a change of heart: Anne Rice ultimately praised Tom Cruise’s performance as Lestat, and Sean Connery’s James Bond became so iconic that Ian Fleming started incorporating aspects of the actor’s movie portrayal into his books.

Print and film are very different media. Should authors simply accept the fact that what they create on paper may not translate so smoothly to the screen? Should they trust the visions of those who may be more knowledgeable about what works in film?

Casting is one thing … what happens when changes are made to plot and story tone?

To be continued next week…

Quote Attributions: 1. P.L. Travers; 2. Stephen King; 3. Roald Dahl

(This post was originally published on Late Last Night Books blogsite in December 2013 — think of it as a summer rerun.)

She was part of a long tradition. The American Spiritualist movement dates back to 1848, when the Fox sisters of upstate New York convinced their followers that mysterious raps heard in answer to posed questions were responses from unseen spirits. Of course, people throughout history have longed for glimpses of the afterlife, if only to learn what awaits beyond death. But with the evangelical Second Great Awakening challenging traditional Calvinist beliefs, the mid-nineteenth century offered particularly fertile ground for an emotional religious revival. It spawned a tidal wave of seances, where people gathered to receive messages from the spirit world delivered through mediums who claimed to be in touch with the dead.

Anyone could make money as a medium, and anyone did. Seances and readings proliferated as newly minted mediums contacted the spirit world via spirit guides (discarnate entities relied upon for spiritual guidance) or the deceased themselves. But alongside those eager to believe sat skeptics just as eager to uncover fraud. Close observation revealed levitating objects suspended by string, and tables tilted by nothing more “spirited” than the medium’s knee. Supernatural “manifestations” turned out to be dolls, while plaster casts served as “materialized” ghostly hands. Yet even after the Fox sisters admitted in 1888 that their spirit rapping had been the result of cracking toe joints, people continued to believe. By the turn of the twentieth century, Spiritualism had more than eight million followers in the United States and Europe. And despite the movement’s glaring lack of credibility, there was more to come.

As the 1920s dawned, the world struggled to recover from the one-two punch of the Great War and the 1918 influenza pandemic. Nearly 120,000 Americans died in World War I. The flu surpassed that figure, sweeping across the landscape in 1918-1919 and taking over 500,000 American souls with it. Almost everyone lost someone dear to them, taken with little warning. Spiritualism experienced a new surge of popularity as, fueled by sorrow and desperation, people flocked to seance tables in search of closure.

As before, fraudulent practices flourished. Mediums continued to glean information about the deceased from the words and descriptions of those trying to contact them. There was ectoplasm made of butter, muslin, and even sheep’s lung. Materialized spirits (including Woodrow Wilson and King Ferdinand of Bulgaria) turned out to be cut-outs clipped from magazines. Spirit photography, where hazy images of the beloved deceased floated about a living subject, was revealed to be nothing more than double exposure. But people came anyway, searching for answers and comfort that traditional religion and modern science couldn’t provide.

Mrs. B’s “circles of enlightenment” were held at her home, in a room set aside as a chapel. A little altar with a cross atop it sat on one side of the room; Mrs. B identified as a devout Christian. Instead of the expected round table, there was a circle of chairs. Spirit pictures–pastel portraits of Mrs. B’s spirit guides–lined the walls. Quartz crystals and religious artifacts were set on side tables. The air felt dense, like walking to one’s seat involved passing through several sets of velvet curtains.

Six of us settled into our chairs. Mrs. B reached for the light switch. As total darkness settled around us, she asked if anybody in the room saw “anyone.” Nobody did. She herself saw points of light, which she identified as spirits. She received information from several spirit guides who had been with her for decades. Frequently she spoke in one-size-fits-all generalities that invited personalized interpretation. Some of her pronouncements seemed like obvious follow-up statements to a participant’s question. Nothing “appeared,” thank heavens; no ectoplasm, thumps, or unusual noises announced otherworldly guests.

I started wondering if anyone else in the room noticed that, except for changes in hairstyle and clothing, all the spirit pictures on the wall looked the same. Did anyone really believe that Mrs. B’s beautiful rose quartz necklace had been materialized as a gift from a spirit guide?

Mrs. B thoroughly believed in her own ability to communicate with spirits and didn’t care whether other people did or not. Neither did the couple comforted by words from their deceased teenage son. Nor did the woman who’d come to ask her late husband for a little guidance about where he’d left his will. Mrs. B listened to a voice none of us could hear and repeated what she heard. I learned later that, based on the information, the woman did indeed locate the will.

Perhaps this is the fundamental reason why belief in Spiritualism continues. For each uncovered act of fraud, there are stories that can’t be explained in logical terms.

Our world moves forward in a steady flow of scientific and medical advances. Technology keeps us in nearly constant contact with each other, no matter where we are. But despite these changes, people today experience the same longing and emptiness as did those so willing to believe the Fox sisters back in 1848.

For those who yearn for something “more,” Spiritualism offers hope.

When I was a kid, I hated even the smell of coffee. The worst part of shopping at A&P with my dad was lining up to pay, because there was a coffee grinder at the end of each check-out line. Most shoppers considered it a perk (sorry) to bring home freshly ground beans. I just wanted to hold my nose and bolt for the door as quickly as possible.

My coffee aversion lasted until sometime during college, when I started drinking instant with sugar and fake creamer. I’m not sure this even counts as real coffee. Thankfully, that phase was over in a hot minute, and I’ve been making up for lost time ever since. I’m not exactly an addict, but I can see it from here.

I used to attribute the change to taste buds, because I totally believed the line that taste buds change every seven years. It turns out this isn’t true. We’re born with approximately ten thousand taste buds which are replaced every two weeks or so — approximately 10% of the cells inside them actually turn over each day. Over time, the number of taste buds we have starts to decrease. This means that many of the flavors that seem too strong when we’re kids become easier to tolerate as we age, leading to an acceptance of more sophisticated flavors as we reach our twenties.

This supports my college-era coffee-awakening but does not explain how I drank the sweet California swill that got passed off as Chablis in the late 1970s. Science says my taste buds were old enough to know better.

Of course, liking certain foods/drink is attached to more than science. My love for coffee dovetailed with the new experiences and camaraderie that came after I left home and began to navigate the world on my own. Even a poor student could afford the bottomless pot of fresh coffee that appeared magically on the table through late-night exam cram sessions at HoJo’s. The boring survival job where staying awake was hard even if sleep happened the night before was fun when accompanied by coffee and co-workers who quickly became friends. Long conversations with new acquaintances ran deeper when bolstered by caffeine.

This is the subtext I pass on to my characters when they’re doing that drinking-making-buying thing. Coffee in my books is more than a prop. It helps set a mood, provides insight into a character’s state of mind and comfort level. Even non-coffee-drinkers recognize the social significance of coffee-fueled gatherings in our culture (I’m looking at you, Central Perk). When my characters share a cup of coffee, they’re usually lowering their defenses and letting someone in.

And if coffee doesn’t do the trick, there’s always wine.

Dreams have intrigued us for as long as we’ve dreamed. What is this otherworldly place we visit while asleep? How can unfamiliar settings be so recognizable?

From Oneirocritica in ancient Greece through Freud’s 1899 landmark The Interpretation of Dreams to countless dictionaries offering dream symbology, there are plenty of resources out there eager to help us interpret what our dreams may be trying to tell us. On some level, though, I think we already know.

For more than a decade, I dreamt on and off about a house I hated. Initially I stood outside of it, but each time the dream came back, I found myself roaming further down eerie passageways, always in search of a way out. The house revealed new rooms, but a sticky, oily darkness kept me from entering them. I’d wake up unsettled, annoyed that the dream had come again. Then, one night, as I hurried through the house looking for a way out, I realized that I didn’t need to dream about this place anymore. A door appeared; I opened it and walked out into fresh air. The dream never returned.

Most of us have dreams that allow us to process emotion and release stress. Sometimes we can pinpoint the daytime stressor, sometimes we can’t. If we’re lucky, the dream helps us resolve a situation. I’m seldom that lucky, but stress dreams at least provide me with a safety valve to blow off excess anxiety. I can’t imaging how tense my days would be without dream-release.

I dreamt about my husband three times before I met him, dreams so vivid that I recorded them in my journal. The same man appeared in each dream. He didn’t look like my husband, but each dream brought a continuation of his story. When my husband and I finally met, the pull was undeniable. Revisiting my journal entries years later, I saw that the details of his life as presented in my dreams were in sync with what I eventually learned about him. The message from the second dream made sense: “Wait for me. I’ll be there.” The last dream had occurred the night before we met (a totally uneventful meeting where I mostly found him arrogant) and foreshadowed the band that finally ignited our friendship.

I don’t believe that dreams are set-in-stone prophecies. One moment’s “future” can be altered by the next moment’s choice. I do, however, think that dreams pass on very real possibilities if we care to look.

Some dreams are so solid that it feels like they’ve actually happened. And, in the spiral of time, maybe they have. Maybe we just need a nudge to remember that a particular outcome exists in our personal realm of possibilities.

It’s hard to trust something we can’t examine with our five physical senses, but that’s probably exactly why we should try. Unfettered by behavioral expectations and structured time, dreams can slip back and forth between our conscious and subconscious, illuminating information not easily absorbed while our eyes are focused on physical reality. For me, it’s worth strapping on my discernment to consider what a texturally vital dream may have to say.

I know. I didn’t connect that stuff with the twenty-fifth president of the United States, either.

Every president since Herbert Hoover has an official presidential library administered by the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA). This means that NARA currently administers fifteen presidential libraries/museums. That leaves out twenty-nine men who served as president prior to Hoover. No worries: they have presidential libraries and/or sites/museums too, each supported by a trust, foundation, society, or university. The McKinley Presidential Library and Museum is run by the Stark County Historical Society and was my first experience with a presidential museum operated outside the NARA system.

The museum sits next to the William McKinley National Memorial, a majestic domed building atop a hill. The memorial is the final resting place of McKinley, his wife Ida, and their two young daughters. Dedicated in 1907, it’s a serene place of reverence that can make the hodge-podge nature of the museum next door feel like a bit of a disconnect.

To be sure, the museum has a McKinley exhibit — it even features animatronic versions of William and Ida, happy to converse about various topics if you’ll just press the button. The figures feel like relics from a long-ago tech era. I may have pushed the button more times than necessary, weirdly fascinated by the stiffness of the figures and the way Ida’s neck creaked whenever she turned her head.

Nestled in-between the planetarium, dinosaurs, replica of a street filled with 19th-century shops, and an expansive exhibit of Stark County history, the McKinley exhibit feels a little small. I couldn’t help wondering when something that’s meant to be an honor might not be construed as one.

On the other hand, the best presidential museums provide both biographical information and historical context. I left the McKinley exhibit with greater knowledge about not only the man who served as president but the times and events that formed and compelled him.

William McKinley isn’t a president most people remember. When they do, it’s usually because he was one of four U.S. presidents assassinated in office. (He was third, shot at the height of his popularity in 1901.) McKinley tends to be overshadowed in history by the vice-president who succeeded him to become the nation’s youngest president, larger-than-life Theodore Roosevelt. But in Canton, Ohio, the city where William and Ida McKinley spent their most significant years, pride and memory are very much alive. Canton has a story it’s eager to tell.

So maybe the museum’s busy layout can be seen more as a bonus than a distraction. Maybe the Stark County Historical Society knows that in order to share a story that more recent generations may not find relevant, you need to diversify the lure.

Maybe sometimes you need a dinosaur.