Funny, the things we dream about

Dreamed about the print shop in Illinois again, last night. It's been almost 4 years since I was up there, and I was only there for about 20 months, and yet I've dreamt about it many times in the last four years--something like once every month or two. I suppose it has to do with unresolved feelings about the whole thing; I'd gone up there thinking I would work there until I retired, and, initially, I had every reason for thinking so.
I'd known Jim, the owner, for about 15 years, having been his customer service rep at the envelope plant for that whole time. I'd known his oldest son, Steve, for about 12 years, ever since he began working with his dad. I'd formed pretty strong friendships with both of them over the years, and, when they asked me if I was interested in coming to work for them, to help Steve run the company after Jim retired, I thought it was a match made in heaven. I enthusiastically closed up my affairs in St. Louis and moved the 90 miles north to White Hall, IL, expecting to be there for quite a long time.

What was left out of my calculations was Bev, Jim's wife, and, ultimately, the real owner of the company. Unbeknownst to me, the company had been funded with Bev's inheritance money, and she maintained the ultimate say-so, dependent not on business acumen but rather her feelings about things. And, unbeknownst to me, she viewed me as a threat to the #2 son, her favorite, and a world-class shirker of the highest order. It only took a couple of weeks for me to realize that she didn't like me, wouldn't like me, and wanted me out; I'd been brought on board against her wishes, a fact I only learned after I'd been there a year.

Let's just cut to the chase and note that it took her almost two years to work up the righteous indignation sufficient to force her will on Jim and Steve. On the day of my dismissal, Jim began with an attempt to justify what was happening based upon mistakes I supposedly made; when I challenged him for specifics, he ended up abandoning that course and just stated that they had to make more room for Eric in the running of the company. As with my departure from the envelope plant, I took the highest road I could manage, and told him I'd enjoyed my time in his employ, and that I was sorry to see things end this way, wished him well and took my leave. Part of me was devastated, but part of me was very glad to be done with Bev and her dismissive sniping, her pettiness.

And still I dream about that place; I'd made friends with the work-force, and, being the sort that likes pulling in double-harness, I'd really bonded with Steve. I was saddened by the fact that he wouldn't return my phone calls, but I understood. There was nothing he could do, and in a way, I think he was as hurt as I was. He'd had his right arm cut off by his own mother, who didn't seem to care that he'd now have to shoulder all the burdens that I'd gladly carried. Oh well.

Moving back to STL was actually a happy thing; I was really glad to move closer to my friends and family, and all the amenities of a major metropolitan area. I found a roommate and an apartment in my old haunts, and eventually another job, and got busy reforming my life again. Ultimately, I know I'm happier now than I was back then; if I hadn't had to move on, I wouldn't have found the job I have now, better than any I've had in decades.

But still I dream about that place. Why is that?