Photo by Mr. Friks
My Real Memoir
I’m a lucid dreamer. No, more than that. There’s no real barrier between my perception of reality and my dreams. Just a fine layer of mist. And when I’m tired or lost in thought, I live in that layer, awake and dreaming at the same time.
And so it was that, after my latest effort at becoming significant failed, I had a persistent waking-dream. I was driving on an unknown highway toward an unknown destination. I hadn’t chosen it, I simply found myself there, with my hands on the wheel and my foot on the pedal. This was my life now — driving toward nowhere, and making myself up as I went along. At least until I ran out of gas.
One late fall Sunday, I emerged from the mist on Pacific Coast Highway in Newport Beach. I’d always liked the area. Jeff and Marc and I had eaten frozen, chocolate-dipped bananas there as teenagers. Then taken the Balboa Island ferry while smoking skinny cherry-flavored cigars, sure that people were impressed by our suave demeanor.
Then I saw it: The shell of a shut-down church at the southwest corner of Newport’s pricey Fashion Island. Or, as the ethically superior called it, “Fascist Island.” The building was for lease. So I fetched a key from a realtor’s box and went inside. And the moment I did, I saw what the empty sanctuary could be. Earlier that year, I’d tried unsuccessfully to turn a couple of dance studios into schools of the arts. Why not build my own? From scratch. Right here in this old church building!
I found the restrooms downstairs at the back of the Fellowship Hall, and was surprised to hear a painfully out-of-tune piano, and voices singing. There was a sign by the door that read “Church of the Highway: All Welcome! Pastor: Rev. Kohl.” I cracked open the door and peeked inside. There was a woman at the piano, Mrs. Kohl I would later learn, leading the good reverend in the final hymn.
When the song ended, Rev. Kohl stood, welcomed the congregation (Mrs. Kohl), and led them (her) in a prayer. Then he proceeded to preach loudly and fervently, rolling his r’s and pounding the pulpit, while Mrs. K shouted hallelujahs. It was kind of sad and funny all at the same time. Their goal was to build a congregation of more than two, and then move upstairs to the former sanctuary. A goal I was about to discourage.
I ducked into the restroom and spotted a plaque that read, “Only one life, ‘twill soon be past. Only what’s done for Christ will last” ~C. T. Studd. That certainly wouldn’t be appropriate for my school of the arts! So I took the plaque down and put it in a drawer. Without realizing it, I’d just declared war on Rev. Kohl. After my school opened, I would take that plaque down and he would put it back up — sometimes two or three times a day.
When I got home, I called the property owner, part-time businessman and full-time psychiatrist Dr. Jack Prodder. Dr. Prodder quoted me the price, outlined the lease specs, and when I questioned a few of his requirements…
Told me what was wrong with me.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
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This is an interesting story…I look forward to reading the next chapter!
Thanks, Carol!
Good read, Mitch.
Thanks, Phil.
You certainly were determined! 🙂
;>)
Cliffhanger! need more!
In the works. Thanks, Pete!
It’s in the works. Thanks, Pete!
Interesting! I look forward to reading more!!
Delighted to hear that, Anne.
This story feels like an invitation to reflect on what truly lasts in life—our dreams, our impact, or perhaps the faith and persistence of those like Rev. Kohl. It left me pondering the meaning of legacy and how our own aspirations intersect with the world around us. Truly thought-provoking!
That’s an intriguing bit of reflection, John.
🤝👏🌷
You know sometimes in life we are not sure how things are going to work out but sometimes we do have to pay attention to signs along the way. My first marriage was an utter disaster but in the beginning I could not quite place a finger on what seemed so wrong. Then we were taking a drive in upstate New York and I went into a restroom where I saw my initials which were made up of my first name, my maiden name, and my married name – RRA except that how could my initials show up in a restroom in Albany, NY, The initials there were for Restrooms of Albany, At that point I new my marriage was not going to make it it was already in the toilet, LOL
Well, at least you’re able to see humor in the experience, Rasma.
Great stuff, brother!
Thanks! May I ask your name?
And now I want to know more…..
Great story, Mitch, waiting for the next installment!
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