King of the Wild Frontier
For as long as I could remember back, during most of my pre-teen years, my dreams were an exercise in lurking terror followed by wild flight and occasional escape.
It was an almost nightly rerun and there were many variations on the theme as to who or what might be doing the chasing, but the story always followed the same linear plot line.
It began with an unknown fear masking itself in the dark, although I could sense its presence. Then as it revealed a partially shadowed self I would try to nonchalantly walk away from it, hoping against hope that I might walk into a lighted area or that the impending doom might get bored this time around and move on to other children’s bad dreams.
But it rarely gave in and as it came closer I would eventually have to run and then the chase was on. I ran fast enough to barely keep a short distance but there was always a juncture where I knew something more would be needed to escape because each time a sudden, black abyss would appear randomly in front of me anywhere during the chase, as if it were placed there magically by my pursuer. This had played out so many times that even in my dreams I could anticipate the eventual abyss.
Now if you’re a psychologist, or play one on TV, you’re probably on the phone to Freud right now, sizing up the scared little boy on the run, so I’m going to give you a second to make a few notes and then continue with the story…
Are we good to go? Alright, so anyway…
Early on I would reach this ‘juncture’ and have to make a decision whether to stand and fight or simply jump into the abyss and hope for the best. Sometimes I fought and sometimes I jumped based upon the imminent threat facing me. If it was something I thought I had a fair chance against I’d risk confrontation. Either way was sheer terror so there was no good choice.
Until I learned to leave the ground.
This same terrible nightmare went on for years with that damn abyss outmaneuvering me and confrontation inevitable but eventually I generated enough inertia from out and out fright to lift myself into the air.
At first I was only able to get a few feet off the ground but after awhile I realized that I had control over this gift if I would simply work with it. So I practiced nightly, knowing the dream pursuit would happen again and again and I’d be scared into perfecting my apparently innate, but heretofore unknown, ability to fly.
The feeling of being able to enable and finally control my flight was a complete rush, similar to the fright of the chase but without the anxiety, suddenly replaced by exhilaration as soon as I took to the air because I knew I was safe. But it was even more than that because I became physically connected to the act of flying, like the most amazingly real flight simulator imaginable. I could feel every move and every surge and lift in a way that I just knew was real…that is, of course, if this dream state were actually possible.
I even became skilled at hovering, often at heights of 60 to 100 feet off the ground. My night stalker was rarely able to take to the skies and continue the pursuit and even if he did, I had developed a skill level that was second to none in the land of dream terror. Bullets? Oh, I could outfox those with a little zig or zag and eventually outdistance them.
There was still one problem.
Even though I could outrun my assailant and go airborne, the dreams kept coming night after night and that initial stabbing fear would jump out of nowhere to torment me once again; just another night of bad dream mojo I was going to have to avoid.
At some point I decided, regardless of my fabulous ability to go aloft, this was going to go on forever and I might as well get used to it until something ended it once and for all, and I thank him to this day.
Davy Crockett, ‘King of the Wild Frontier’, inhabited by the acting likes of Fess Parker, coonskin cap and all, defender of good men everywhere, afraid of no one, accompanied by his pal Jim Bowie (rustically played by Buddy Ebsen), promoted and displayed by Walt Disney. It was one of my favorite shows and Parker’s portrayal of Crockett always made me feel comforted and protected. I even had a Davy Crockett foot stool that I lugged around from room to room depending on the occasion. I sang the song, I had my own coonskin cap, I never missed a show and, fortunately, I had no idea that things were going to take a bad turn at the Alamo. All I knew was this guy had great adventures and could make friends with anybody, be they human or critter.
One night I didn’t have the chase/abyss dream as usual. It was replaced by some brain cinema featuring Davy Crockett and me (I’m assuming that Buddy Ebsen was out auditioning for West Side Story or something). Davy and I had adventures and he taught me how to take care of myself and how to ‘wrassel a bar’ (that’s ‘wrestle a bear’ for the uninitiated). I felt like Davy had my back and in many ways he did…because I never had that chase/abyss dream again.
Never.
Dreams would come and go but that constant darkness was gone forever and a light replaced it. If I got myself into a pickle, I had the savvy to get out of it. Hell, I even did a few dream episodes with Bat Masterson (if you’re too young to know the name, just Google it). Davy Crockett had broken the cycle and I was free at last.
There have been a lot of days gone by where I could have used a little more Davy Crockett in my life and goodness knows that Peter Pan, flying around thing would have come in handy but, for a frightened 8 year-old, I got what I needed, when I needed it, and from unlikely sources.
I always wanted to say, “Thanks Davy”, for getting me out of a tough jam. I owe you one.