Dreams Stashed Behind the Couch~

Last night I had a dream about Glen Campbell. Why I would dream about Glen Campbell is a mystery I am pondering.

I know the man’s work and sporadically watched his television show as a kid, probably because my dad liked him. I can remember how he sang the words to Gentle on my Mind so fast that I messed up the lyrics. I thought the guy was sleeping behind some girl’s couch (“… that makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind your couch,” became “thatmakesmetend to leave my sleeping..back..…behind your couch.”)

The reason this dream sticks with me is because Glen Campbell came out on a stage and, and in my dream state, I stood right next to it, over it, seeing all – the omniscient player. He began singing while “stashed” behind some rolled up cloth that I now realize must have been the sleeping bag. He quickly came out, still singing, and darted behind a container of Clorox wipes. There were two Matchbook-type cars on the stage. One of them had to be held and wound up for speed by holding onto the car and revving the wheels. The other one was larger. In the dream, Glen Campbell was able to make these cars do tricks and the audience, such as it was, applauded. But here is the important part. He sang a song that I have never heard before. It rhymed perfectly and told a snippet of a story from his childhood, in which he was never allowed to utter the name “Glen,” and had to be called “Jack.” It was a sad song, really, and touched me emotionally.

I immediately connected, during my deconstruction of this dream sequence, that my great-great uncle was named Reginald John Campbell. He was called “R.J.” or “John” his whole life. I don’t think he was ever called “Jack,” but I think I need to find out. It sounds reasonable, since his father's name was John. The Very Reverend R.J. Campbell was the Alex P. Keaton of his day because he was the stalwart Anglican priest born to a minister and his wife in Northern Ireland. That minister, John Campbell, listed himself as a “free Methodist” on his son’s birth registry. This means that John, as a minister of a break-away sect, fathered a son who went back to the family’s religious roots, which were much more conservative. This is like Steve and Elise Keaton, of Family Ties, raising Alex P., played by Michael J. Fox, a staunch right-wing Republican who always wore a shirt and tie.

Recently, I saw a magazine interview of Michael J. Fox, who played Alex P. Keaton, on Family Ties. Fox, as you probably know, suffers from Parkinson’s Disease, the disease that eventually killed my Uncle Bob. Uncle Bob met the very Reverend R.J. Campbell at some point in his early marriage to my auntie Joycie – who was, you guessed it – a Campbell by birth.

Now, Michael J. Fox also reminds me of my father, who whose mother, my grandmother, was born a Campbell. She saved several of R.J. Campbell’s letters written during WWII and later. I have these letters and treasure them. My father was J. Michael, not Michael J., but the strange thing is that my father was in one of these dream sequences, as a young man, carefully laying out some clothes. He was wearing a carefully ironed shirt and tie. He looked back at me and smiled – he was slender and young, looking like he did when I was a child.

The fact that Glen Campbell came out in this dream is a puzzle until I remember that I was watching and listening to a television music channel very briefly last night and one of the artists featured was Tanya Tucker. There were several pictures of Tanya Tucker flashed upon the screen – two when she was younger and one as she looks now. I swear that I did not make ONE connection to the fact that she used to hang out with Glen Campbell and shared an addiction to alcohol with him. I was not thinking about that at all – only the fact that Tanya Tucker was 16 when she released her first album and that I went out and bought it because she was my age. There is another connection, though, that brings this thing full circle – my father spent his entire life addicted to alcohol. Go figure.

It gets better. My Uncle Bob and Auntie Joycie had two sons and Rob, the eldest, posted on Facebook yesterday that he was visiting wine country this weekend. Rob’s middle name is Norman. He was named for his grandfather, my great grandfather, Norman Campbell. And guess what? Norman T. Campbell had a little problem with alcohol.

My father’s music tastes were eclectic but I don’t remember him having any Glen Campbell albums. But he did watch Glen Campbell’s show and would make comments about Bobby Goldsboro, who always sat next to Glen and played guitar. My dad thought Bobby was equally talented and voiced this opinion often. Bobby is, of course, short for Robert – like my Uncle Bob. And the name Campbell? I didn’t made THAT connection until I began writing all of this down.

During a sequence of this very strange dream, I picked up an armful of grass that had been mowed and was piled on a lawn. I proceeded to call the names of graduates and then hand them “leaves of grass” instead of a diploma. There was much consternation among the graduates but approval from Glen Campbell’s audience. I told them that handing out “leaves of grass” was MY IDEA. Of course, in the dream, I don’t remember saying anything about leaves of grass and Walt Whitman and the gift of poetry. That connection came later, as I attempted to deconstruct this dream.

Where did this idea come from, I pondered, since I don’t own any books by Walt Whitman or know any of his poetry except the Leaves of Grass title. I am reading a book about the history of reading, so perhaps the link is there since Whitman was a popular poet back in the 19th Century.

But here’s a connection, one I didn’t make until a few minutes ago as I straightened some books lent to me by a friend. Yesterday I considered one of these titles for future reading. What is the title? You won’t guess: Falling Leaves. (Get OUT!)

The very Reverend Reginald John Campbell would have been a Canon in the Church of England, but was denied this promotion because he went off on a tangent for awhile with some wacky theology. He eventually returned to the fold, but his penance, I suppose, was to remain the very reverend and retiring with a smaller pension. He wrote books. His brother, my great-great grandfather, James Johnston Campbell, was a writer. His books remain on a shelf in my father's library. He often referred to himself as "Jimmy," which lends credence to the idea that R.J. might have used the name "Jack."

What any of this has to do with Glen (Jack) Campbell and his magnificently lost song – the one I can’t remember – remains a mystery.

As a kid, I would flop belly down behind my grandmother’s couch and pore over a volume of British history. I looked for the exciting parts, like tower imprisonments and bloody executions. In my subconscious mind, I suppose, is the connection to Glen Campbell, who slept behind some woman’s couch in my childish mind’s eye, ever Gentle on my Mind.