fantasy Archives - JOCELYN A DORGAN

I tossed and turned much of the night, thoughts racing about everything I needed to do in the morning. Would I be able to sleep if I made a To-Do list instead of worrying that I might forget an important task? My nearly sixty-year-old hands were semi-frozen into arthritic claws from yesterday’s hard work and would require a session of finger-yoga before agile enough to grip a pen or make a note in my smartphone. Better to hope my equally old memory could retain every detail on the growing index of tasks. So, I continued to toss and turn.

Upon awakening, I worked at limbering my hands, particularly my thumbs, by opening and closing, clenching and flexing. Mentally running through my chores, I was satisfied that nothing appeared to have fallen off the agenda. It was time to attack my jam-packed schedule.

I needed to design a garden, buy the flowers and shrubs, then get everything planted. There were shells to collect, bugs to catch, and high-value fish to find. I needed to shop for new clothes then change for the day. With the recent addition on my house, I hoped to find furniture to decorate. It was time to recruit someone to move to my island so I could improve my rating. A house needed to be relocated. I had to donate a fossil to the museum. And, it was time to sell all of my acquisitions to Nook’s Cranny for top ~~dollar~~ bell. You see, I’ve been striving to unlock the terra-forming app, which would allow me to reroute waterways and construct/destroy cliffs since I created my avatar on Animal Crossing New Horizons.

Just hangin’ in my virtual diner. How about that jukebox?

What virtual alternate reality am I living in, you might wonder. Animal Crossing is the genius Nintendo video invention that was first released in 2001. When my son turned eight, his efforts to convince his video game wary mother that it was imperative for him to get a Game Cube initially fell on indifferent ears. I poo-pooed his pleas for Super Mario and The Legend of Zelda. Then the boy told me about Animal Crossing, a sweet game of slow-paced tasks and fun interactions between my character and the humanlike animals. He showed me the sales pitch on the computer and insisted that even someone as old as me would love this game. He promised that if I bought him the gaming system, he would split it with me so I could delve into a world where the most stressful thought was whether I could pull a whale shark from the ocean or if I’d scare it away. Smart kid.

I became a devotee of Animal Crossing from the outset. Kicking back with a glass of wine, I loved doing relaxing chores that allowed me to earn currency to pay the mortgage on my ever-expanding home. I could decorate with a heart-themed bed and dresser or change it up with rustic furniture made from logs. Effortlessly, I could replace the yellow and white striped wall-covering to one with bold blue flowers or transform the concrete floor into pine hardwood. Under the guidance of my thumbs on the joystick controls, I could dig and plant a flourishing garden in under a minute. I installed apple orchards and orange trees. As game systems evolved, my son yearned for upgrades and leveraged his argument with promises of the next edition of Animal Crossing. From Nintendo DS to the Wii to the 3DS, I moved into ever-improving software developments. As with many hobbies and fads, though, real-life demanded I put down my controllers where they were soon forgotten.

Then Covid-19 surged, and as with the rest of the world, I went into quarantine. My husband, daughter, and I were locked down together with the same anxieties felt by all. To manage stress, some took up biking, hiking, or yoga. My husband took solace in landscaping our backyard. None of those felt relaxing to me, though, so what could give me a sense of peace in a chaotic world? I called my son to complain, seeing as my daughter and husband had heard the same rant four, five, or six times. He listened to me whining about the boredom, the stress, the anxiety. As I crossed the line from venting into rambling, he cut me off — “why don’t you get the Nintendo Switch so you can play Animal Crossing?” I took a second, ready to explain why nothing could possibly work, but then I realized…that was perfect. I’m an escapist. When stress overwhelms me, I don’t turn inward; I run away. This is why a fifth viewing of Bridesmaids, or my fiction writing, or Animal Crossing can always lift my spirits.

My beautiful garden. Almost as nice as hubby’s real one.

I set up my new island getaway, and my days became filled with transforming a wild, undeveloped territory into a bustling town. While my husband planted azaleas and hydrangeas in our backyard, I was busy doing the same for my virtual neighbors. As my daughter made us salads for lunch, I sold coconuts and pears at Nook’s Cranny. And, as my husband lay awake at night making a mental list of seeds and bulbs he needed to buy, the dirt he’d have to order for the raised garden, and scrolling through his phone to find a shrub to replace the one we’d lost, I was tossing and turning, too. He wasn’t the only one with a crazy schedule.

My husband recently turned sixty and, given his newfound passion for horticulture, I invested in a greenhouse for his birthday gift. As I was carrying the boxes to the backyard, my daughter appeared in the doorway.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Your father’s new greenhouse,” I said, then, without a transition, immediately continued with the deluge of ideas cascading through my head. “I need to relocate Biff’s house today, and I’ve got to redo that walkway from yesterday. I’m not happy with it. Those red roses that I planted next to the white haven’t produced the hybrid pink yet. Also, if I don’t move the hydrangea—”

“What are you talking about? Is that real life or Animal Crossing?”

“Animal Crossing,” I said.

“Your reality,” my daughter said, “is no longer distinguishable from your imaginary world.”

“That’s how I keep sane!”

After another eight-hour day of landscaping, my husband rested in his recliner and complained about his painful shoulder. His hamstrings were in spasm from bending over the flower beds, and his back hurt from hoisting shovelfuls of dirt. As he struggled to his feet, creaking and groaning, he looked at me for sympathy.

“Don’t even try it, bucko,” I told him, setting down the video controller and doing some thumb exercises. “It’s been a hard day for me, too!”

I won the lottery. The 200-million-dollar lottery, to be exact. After the inevitable taxes, the gifts to friends, and trusts established for family, there was still an obscene amount of money left. Too much for my husband and me to spend in our lifetime. So, I purchased thousands of acres of property and established an animal sanctuary.

There were dozens of barns and quarters for everyone from retired racehorses and rescued cows to elderly dogs and feral cats. Pigs had their own yard fenced off from their neighboring goats and sheep, complete with troughs and mud pits in which to luxuriate on sweltering summer days. An alpaca might stroll past chicken coups while peacocks kept dozens of watchful eyes on the operation. A venture of this magnitude required a sizeable staff, including three veterinarians, groundskeepers, a business manager, and multiple caretakers to feed, groom, and oversee the comfort of the residents. High school and college students could earn credit by mucking stables and snuggling lambs.

This lifelong dream of mine was exactly that…a dream. In 1986, the dream was so vivid that, upon waking, I could recall minute details and conjure up sensory cues as specific as the annoyance of the buzzing flies and the pervasive aroma of manure. I could see the rolling pastures with happily grazing animals who would peacefully live out their lives under my indulgent care.

The following morning, I strutted right into my boss’s office at the newspaper where I worked. “I won’t be in tomorrow,” I informed him. “Why not?” he asked. “Because I’m winning the 200-million-dollar lottery and starting an animal sanctuary.” With that, we shared uproarious laughter. It wasn’t only because of the confidence in my assertion. It was because, in 1986, lottery jackpots topped out somewhere around the 10-million-dollar range. The very thought of a 200-million-dollar prize was unimaginable.

Through the decades, as the lotteries grew, I never forgot about that dream. I began scouting properties that could accommodate the number of animals I intended to rescue. I convinced my niece that, once up and operational, I wanted her to manage the overall business. Now, every time the Mega Millions or Powerball creeps toward that 200-million mark, my husband, or son, or daughter, calls to remind me to buy tickets. I firmly believe that, since it was my vision, it has to be my purchase.

A pipedream, you say? Superstition? I don’t think so. I was raised to believe in the supernatural – unexplained events and a connection to the otherworldly. How many times have I started humming a song that suddenly popped into my head, just to immediately find it blaring from the radio? Countless. I’ve often been viewed as a good luck charm at casinos as my intuition during Blackjack is unparalleled. I’ve bought dinners – paid for vacations – because my gut has told me when to double down and when to stand. Or, what about when a long-lost friend calls me for the first time in ages to find my lack of surprise disconcerting? After all, I’d had a “hunch” I’d be hearing from her.

I know, I know. You want to call these “coincidences.” Occasional nudges from the universe that aren’t much more than a fluke. I beg to differ. My mother was always surrounded by tarot card readers, astrologists, and mystics so, growing up, I took for granted her psychic abilities. I never thought to question her when she adamantly professed that spirits of her loved ones had visited her through her life. I grew up assuming that everybody believed in ghosts. Imagine my dismay the first time a classmate said, “There’s no such thing as ghosts.” Had Mom lied? Couldn’t be! Obviously, my peers were simply uninformed. I saw firsthand when Mom and her sister received profound answers to the questions they asked of the Ouija board. Even after my mother died, her ability to communicate across the life/death threshold continued when she contacted my aunt. Imagine my aunt’s shock when she was playing Farmville on her computer and an instant message from Mom’s account popped up declaring, “I’m flying through the stars!”

I’d like to think I’ve inherited intuitive sensitivities. I’m in awe of those who have mastered this skill. I’ve dropped a hefty amount of money visiting professional mediums, from locals to the esteemed John Edward. While I’ve never received a personal message, I’ve watched in amazement as those around me dissolved into tears at a meaningful word from a loved one. After my beloved dog Clifford died, my depression drove me to reach out to Sonya Fitzpatrick, the famed pet psychic from Animal Planet. I was a tad skeptical that my dog would be able to speak with a person. By phone, Sonya described details of my house that would have been difficult to guess. A room with a wooden floor and rug covering part of it made Clifford nervous; he was afraid he would slip and hurt his painful leg. She said Clifford had appreciated when, near the end, I would lie on the ground with him and give him pieces of ice. I was confused, though, when she went into great detail about the blue blanket that I always covered him with at night. His blanket was a multi-colored quilt. When my daughter came home from school and I mentioned this inaccuracy, she went to the blanket and turned it over. The back was solid blue. My skepticism vanished.

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So, scoff all you want as I eagerly check to see which lottery is close to the 200 million mark. If you want to get in on the action, though, you’ll need to let me buy the tickets. Since it was my dream, I have to be the one who actually makes the purchase. Then, join me on my animal sanctuary where all residents live comfortably and peacefully. Where rescued horses and lambs and calves and rams and puppies and piglets play from dawn to dusk. Where bluebirds sing joyfully as they drape me in the pink gown that they helped create with the household mice. Where unicorns frolic in vast meadows under a hundred perfect rainbows. Fantasy, you say? I call it a prophecy.