I learned how to levitate in Portland. It was on Spring Street during the recession of ’81 and wasn’t easy. I had to practice nearly every night.

The first time was horizontally over a mud puddle. My chest got wet. Yet I achieved levitation. My nose may have dipped in the water, only I can’t remember.

But the next time it was over an apple tree in my grandmother’s back field, at night in Blue Hill. She’d put aluminum strips on strings tied to wooden stakes. They made noises in the wind that kept deer out of her garden and were quite musical. I sorta floated to the melody of wind chimes. Yet I made myself drop on the other side of the tree because if I hadn’t, there was a swamp a short distance away. Who wants to get wet each time, hey?

There’s a variety of ways I use to propel myself. One is to cup the air with palms then bring my arms forcefully back to my torso. Like swimming underwater. The creature from the black lagoon would have preferred that way. Another is putting my hands on hips and kinda flapping them. You’d be surprised how fast one can go. Or I pretend I’m rowing a boat. Fishermen would be good at that, and oarlocks wouldn’t be a problem either. On rare occasions, I use my feet. Giant stop-motion steps.

Sailing over countryside

However, I find there is a requirement in order for me to even get my feet off the ground. I have to believe I can do it. I must have faith in myself. Seems logical doesn’t it? I mean levitation is no mean feat. To jump off a cliff and sail over the countryside is taking a huge chance.

What I’ve written is true. Except everything happened in my dreams.

I was depressed because I couldn’t find a job during that recession. Any job. Car payments, cable TV payments, hospital bills, rent and utilities, a cigarette habit, high gas prices. Living on my wife’s wages. Work is life and I thought of leaving it many times. How can one beg?

I oftentimes wonder if anyone else had escapist dreams like mine. (I still do.) The subconscious so desperate it tries to heal itself. In fact, the next morning I always felt better, as if I rose above my problems. Recently I sent an e-mail to “Ask Marilyn” of Parade magazine asking what it all meant. She hasn’t answered yet.

Since then I’ve read a book by Studs Terkel about oral stories of the Great Depression. It’s titled “Hard Times.” Fascinating. When the going got rough, women and men, usually the Walter Mittys of the world, rolled up their sleeves and together made it through. I did when I finally got a job pouring cement foundations in Gray.

Everyone has a story. I’ve just told one of mine.

Edward M. Turner, a freelancer living in Biddeford, has published stories, essays and poems. His novel, “Rogues Together,” won the 2002 Eppies Award for best in action/adventure.