Dream 20020707, 6:00 AM:
Tornadoes and the Egg Lady
I am with a companion (Mom?) out travelling cross-country on foot. We stop at a little wooden house, and ask for shelter; they agree to let us stay a night or two. There are a lady and a man, and another man who seems to be boarding with them. We are shown that we will sleep in wooden storage spaces that are under the floor – it seems like they were designed to maximize use of space. The lady is looking for a fifth bottle, like from whiskey; she needs it for the man who is boarding with them, in case he needs to finish peeing.
There is a storm brewing. I look up into the bright, slightly-clouded blue sky, and I can see circulation in some of the clouds. They are not dark or threatening rain, just slowly turning, and growing faster. I know it will be a tornado. We hide in the hatches under the floor; I am in one with the lady of the house. We are covered with something thin like a sheet; I hold my hands and feet firmly against the sides of the compartment to keep from being dislodged. The tornado goes by, taking the house off from the top of us; I can tell that it has, because I can see daylight through the top of the sheet where it’s peeking through the hatch. I push up the hatch, and I can see that the tornado is still there, just a little – it looks like a swirl of dark oily smoke. I push it away with the lid of the hatch, and we climb out.
There are a lot of houses around the one we were in. None of them seem to be destroyed, although each of them has damage. Everybody is cleaning up messes, and there are several things that the lady calls “creameries” – they look about the size of small animal pens, but up on stands, and there is sticky stuff that I think is supposed to be butter on the outside of them. It is supposed to be inside, but the tornado sucked it out and made a mess. It looks like bread dough.
The lady has realized that her hen house got hit. It’s still standing, but the eggs are mostly smashed; there is egg insides all over, and just tiny bits of shell. She opens a door in the henhouse, and takes out balls of doughnut dough; she takes them over to a neighbor’s house who bakes, because she can bake them up. They are large, like the size of her hand, and have cinnamon on them. I start trying to explain to her that I can’t eat the doughnuts because they have wheat flour in them; I want her to know I’m not rejecting her hospitality.