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I’d visited there as a youngster and my father had spoken fondly of a girl he knew at a nearby farm, confiding to me that she had taught him “about women”. Her name was Freyda and she’d come to the states as a youngster with her Austrian parents who had become successful farmers, building quite a large holding of land for hay and grazing cattle.When I’d settled in I got directions and went searching for her. It took a while when I found the farm to locate her. She was up to her elbows in a cow’s birth canal, assisting in a delivery. “Hello. Who are you?” was the greeting with a still-evident German accent.She asked me to get her some things and I saw the calf take its first breaths. “Why are you here?” was typical of her direct manner so I explained about my father having worked there. The answer to “How is he?” got a sad look in her face. “I’m sorry for the news. I liked him a lot when he worked here.”She cleaned up and led me to the farmhouse for some strong tea and cookies. We. There was something familiar about her. Although I was certain I had never met her before, the feeling she invoked in me was the same feeling you have when you are torn from a deep slumber by a vivid nightmare.Her grin broadened. “Is there a problem, Mr. Renard?”“No problem,” I paused and looked at the long, slender fingers of her left hand that was resting on the table. Her fingernails were the deepest shade of red I had ever seen. Her ring finger was bare. “Miss...” I waited for her to introduce herself to me.She sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. Her large breasts swelled out from the top of the blouse. “Call me Mistress,” she almost hissed her reply.I stared at the meaty mounds of her cleavage and grinned, “I will not be addressing you as Mistress, regardless if this is or isn’t a dream.”She tapped her fingernails against the surface of the desk and calmly replied, “Life is but a dream, Mr. Renard. Therefore, if this is a dream, this is also real life.”I.
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