Another autumn. Beavercreek, Ohio.

It's sleepy here, in this Midwest hamlet. A fact which may account for the ease into which one can slip into dreaming.

These somnambulist Beavercreekians have Indian Summers that stretch into Thanksgiving. They live in a place where days are passed among colored landscapes with hypnotizing beauty ... and the nights are slept effortlessly in the cool comfort of a fall chill.

Of dreams and imaginings, this is a kind of Neverland. A place where Orville and Wilbur shared a universe with Peter Pan and Tinker Bell. Perhaps that resonance never leaves this place. This Neverland.

On an afternoon just a few days ago, I was looking out my office window. October had neared its very end, and I wasn't surprised upon seeing the pale blue skies depart. Now, gray and purple billows could be seen pushing and rolling above the trees. With it, a wet wind was determined to strip every defiant Indian Summer leaf from every tree.

That wasn't easy here in Neverland. Some few trees were overcome and turned into branchy scarecrows, but most held on.

In its wake were low mists, hugging the ground, just as the clouds seemed to hover over the tops of the trees. Foggy and spooky, it couldn't have been painted any better.

As I watched the leaves tumble through the mist, a car emerged, seemingly from nowhere, slowing as it neared our house. It appeared to be a black Chrysler LeBaron.

And the top was down.

The old car slowed and idled patiently at the curb, as if waiting, uncertain of the address. Its driver, and lone occupant, was wearing a corduroy beret. His arm rested on the door atop the open window. The arm lifted, tweed jacket patched at the elbow, and a leather-gloved hand held up a scrap of paper, no doubt confirming an address.

Chill gusts of wind blew smoke from the man's pipe, which floated in swirls as the convertible turned and crept up the driveway. Its strange license plates read "Calumt Av." It stopped, and its cream-colored canvas roof began lifting in jerky, clunky movements.

It seemed normal to me. As if it was the most natural thing that dad would make his way here. Eventually.

I rushed out the door, shivering and meeting him at the LeBaron.

"Dad?" He nodded and pulled his beret tighter.

"Come in, it's freezing out here," I said, clutching his elbow. He looked youthful, no older than fifty, and his face was rosy and chapped, as if he'd been driving through the skies.

"No, no, I'm actually headed to Cincinnati. That's where they used to make Rookwood, you know. It's just an old warehouse now, but we wanted to explore it. James is already there. I can't stay long. But I wanted to see my great grandson, the boy, Rice."

"It's Rhys, dad. But none of us could get it right at first. Are you sure you won't stay?"

He shook his head, pointing a gloved hand down the driveway. It seemed normal, as if he was expected. Hmm, these dreams.

The LeBaron followed me, our two black cars drifting through strewn piles of leaves and under the low hanging grey clouds. We passed haystacks and pumpkin farms and nearly endless fields of dry Ohio cornstalks.

We turned past the church and pulled into the gravel driveway.

"What a beautiful house," my father said, stepping up and out of his convertible, rubbing his gloved hands together. "Just look at that porch," he pointed, up at the house. As always, admiring the craft of the builder.

"Yes, but it's not a mansion," I offered.

He started ahead of me toward the door, down the gravel drive. He approached the stairs, planted his brown leather shoe on the first step, and his image flickered. It was if the scene had skipped, just for a moment.

His next step was with a well-worn wing-tip shoe. Gone were the tweed jacket and the wool pants. The beret was also missing. This younger man had a flat-top buzz cut. His cheeks were taunt and rosy, with a slight blonde stubble. He wore a short sleeve white shirt, with several pens in the front pocket. He also wore a green patterned tie, clipped to the front of his shirt.

It was my father. But the younger, untroubled, and freely unfettered version. Under his arm, he carried several white squares of mat-board, which had appeared as if from nowhere.

"Katie, Katie!" He shouted, as he skipped up the last step, not waiting for me to follow.

"It's grandpa. Grandpa Jack."

I saw Katie in the window, with the baby over her shoulder. She peered through the curtains. She seemed not to recognize this man, the one with the crewcut, the low sideburns, and the rosy smile.

"It's me, Katie!" he said, beaming. The door was quickly opened and she looked upon the two of us. She looked at me first, her eyes searching mine. I nodded.

I looked older than him. And he, well he looked like Matthew, but with short hair and a slight shimmer.

She knew. Her head was soon upon his shoulder. "Grandpa, I've missed you so much." Her tears were happy. And sad.

Nothing else needed saying.

Katie didn't hesitate. "Look, grandpa, it's Rhys." She cradled him, turning his way, her eyes wet. "Rhys, this is your great grandpa Jack."

My father looked too young to be a great grandfather. But he smiled, put his supplies on the table, and lifted the 2-month old baby, looking into his blue eyes.

"Katie, he's so beautiful. Just like you." And then, "He's such a gift. Do you think he'd like a story?" he asked, nodding at the supplies on the table.

We all sat in the kitchen, in stools around the counter, while Katie propped up Rhys so he could listen. And watch. Soon, my father had his felt tip marker out - and he began the story.

Rhys was transfixed by the movement of the marker across the white boards - and by the magic of my father's voice - as he spoke of the Witch Sisters and drew their world. One board beheld the broom room. Another showed them flying across the dark October sky, with warty noses and long, flapping capes.

This continued for many minutes, longer than I would have thought the baby would stay interested. But all of us, including Rhys, felt entranced.

Dad stopped sketching when the baby opened his tiny hands, reached toward him, and made a squeak.

"Look at those fingers, they were meant for a piano or a paintbrush. Or maybe this," he smiled, holding the marker out to Rhys, who clutched it with his long pink fingers.

Rhys cooed. He smiled at his great grandfather. Then closed his eyes.

"He's off to another dream, perhaps," dad whispered. He began collecting his mats, lost in some thought.

"Hey dad?" I asked, as he made to leave. "What's it like, I mean, in heaven?"

He smiled and scratched his sideburn. Katie picked up Rhys and again lay her head on Jack's shoulder.

Dad pointed at the table, at the mats, and at Katie and the baby. "It's beautiful, John. In fact, it's a lot like this."

And with that, he kissed Katie on the forehead. Rubbed the sleeping baby's blonde hair, and left through the kitchen door.

We watched as dad, now back in his tweed coat and beret, climbed back into the LeBaron.

The car reversed. Time reversed. Back into the mist.

Back into Neverland.

#seasonal poetry

An October of Dreams