Matthew's Word of the Week: Eyebulbs, his pronunciation of "eyeballs."

Chestnut Collectors

Do you remember your dreams? Do you think dreams are messages from the subconscious? Here's a recent one of mine for all of you who like to play armchair psychologist:

I had stopped at a convenience store because I needed some eggs. The twins were in the car, too, but I decided to leave them in there instead of bringing them into the store with me. [Note: This is not something I would ever do in real life.]

I picked up a carton of eggs and took them to the register to pay. As I was standing in line, I noticed that the eggs were leaking from the bottom of the carton. I opened it up and saw that most of the eggs were broken.

I left my place in line and went back to get another carton, but all of them were leaking. Every carton I opened had broken eggs inside. I searched for a long time, but then suddenly I remembered the twins were waiting in the car.

I ran out of the store and hurriedly opened the sliding door of the minivan. The inside of the car was stiflingly hot, and the boys were nearly unconscious. Stephen was panting, and his skin felt hot and dry to my touch. I unstrapped them from their seats and pulled them out of the car, feeling desperately frightened and guilty. Then I woke up.

So what do you think? Remember what Freud said: Sometimes an egg is just an egg. Or something like that.

Stephen, Matthew, and I took our customary morning walk today. It had rained last night, but today the sun was shining and the air crisp and cool. The breeze rustled the dry leaves still on the trees and sent the fallen ones skittering down the sidewalk ahead of us.

The fall foliage is nearly at its peak right now. The rain we had in September has counteracted the effect of our summer drought. I think that this weekend we should try to spend at least a little time leaf-peeping in bucolic Hunterdon County.

The noon bells at St. Hedwig's were starting to chime as we reached the half-way point of our walk. The sun was nearly overhead, and our shadows were squat and misshapen. I prefer the way my shadow looks in the late afternoon, gracefully tall and willowy in the light of the setting sun.

"I'm stepping on your shadow, Mama!" Stephen called out gleefully.

"Oh, no! Don't step on me!" I cried, playing along with him.

He laughed. Then we turned the corner and our shadows shifted behind us. "I'm walking on your shadow, now!" I told him. He giggled and scampered off.

A block away from our house is a horse chestnut tree. The rain and wind last night knocked down most of the remaining chestnuts; dozens of them littered the sidewalk. The boys ran ahead and started collecting them. They love to step on the spiny outer hulls and pop out the smooth, brown nuts, which they put in their pockets.

"Look, Mama! I found twins," Matthew exclaimed, holding up two small, attached nuts.

"You're cleaning up the sidewalk for me? Thanks!" she said to the twins. She picked up the newspaper that was lying on her porch, took the plastic bag off, and handed it to Stephen. "Here you go. You can put them in there."

The twins busily filled the bag while the woman and I chatted a little. "I used to love this tree when I was little," she said. "Now I hate it--so much work in the fall."

Back at our house I made the boys dump out all their chestnuts by the bottom step of the front porch. We have amassed quite a collection there. Stephen crumpled up the now empty bag and stuck it in his coat pocket.

"Can I bring my bag when Daddy takes us for a walk tonight?" he asked.

"Sure, honey."

"I'm going to get more chestnuts tonight!" he exulted.

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