It would not be important to write down.  The dream, after five nights of work, closing every night, busy nights full of entertaining, job well done, of returning to a campus.  There is a reunion going on, a return, as if I am redoing my senior year, another try, and my friends are there too, but they are keeping up with adding information and sophistication, whereas I am learning, or attempting to, through the experience, as if I were filing it all away in hopes of gaining some form of wisdom.  I am back trying to figure out the dining halls.  There are stands, shops, places serving food, charging money, and then there are the free college dining halls, serving the specials of the day, and ones serving sandwiches based on one's preference.  I am walking.  There are many new contours, hills, stands of woods, rocky outcroppings, that make it obvious that the campus was carved out of pasture and countryside, places I have not seen.  I cannot seem to figure out my schedule of classes.  I want to badly, but it doesn't seem to be happening.  I spend a lot of time walking, and there are many vistas, a war memorial on a distant wooded hillside ridge.  Fog and mist, light.  Remarkable and interesting old buildings from the 19th Century that I have not noticed before, made of brick.  There is a concert to welcome the new school year, a famous band in name, modernized, with many unrecognizable musicians.  I see Roger Daltrey over there, but not Pete Townsend.  Unfamiliar music, modern, funky.  Walking around I come across military equipment and vehicles.  And during the concert there is a show of military fireworks that strike me as dangerous.  I am wandering.  I have doubts that I will fit in enough, after my experiences in the real world.  I belong, by pedigree, and temperament and native intelligence, and yet, I don't belong, as seems usual for some of us.  Outsiders.

Beyond the campus, to the east, beyond the hills where I lived as a child down in the valley, beyond those green pasture towns, there is an interesting steep hill where I would like to hike, just north of a town center where there are restaurants and shops and large grocery store and a department store.  It's a small mountain, lovely to climb.  It draws me, a kind of national park or nature preserve.

Toward the end of the dream I am coming down a hill, circumnavigating the outside of an event, and there is a gentleman from the college, a communications person, who greets me, telling me he appreciates the notes, the letters, I've written to him (as amateur as they are.)  I am embarrassed by these efforts, but he is kind and I fill up.  My oldest surviving professor friend, WHP, has grown a beard, and looks a bit like David Letterman does with his own beard.  He is still teaching, and friendly to me.  He beckons to me, come over here, and he greats me quite warmly.