Mom, Greg and I were taking a vacation by the ocean, and one night, we were out on the beach watching the phosphorescent glow of the surf during a seasonal Red Tide event. I was throwing clumps of wet sand into the sea and watching them make little bioluminescent explosions as they hit the water, imagining that I was a farmer broadcasting seeds into the ocean using the hand grenade method. 

The trick was to wait for the tide to go out and then run as far as possible into the wet sand, maximizing the distance into the sea that one could hurl the clumps and making the splashes more dramatic in the undisturbed deeper water. 

This would also be, according to my well-reasoned interpretation of the Nautical Farmer's Almanac, the optimal distance to ensure a good germination, giving the seeds plenty time underwater, while at the same time allowing for some sunlight between waves. Never mind that the waves were certain to wash away any crops that might even begin to take root in this turbulent saline environment. 

My technique got me into trouble when a couple of waves backed up, and I suddenly suddenly became engulfed in a big surge of of rushing foam. My shorts got soaked, so I shed them, but I continued to play on the beach in my my underwear unperturbed. 

Someone pointed out that the whales were migrating, and sure enough, with the red tide, it was easy to spot them. They left a glowing trail of sparkly spray as they occasionally broke the surface while powering northward at full steam. A few sharks and dolphins were also visible, distinguishing themselves by their unique dorsal fin profiles. 

It got late, and we all packed into a hotel room, conveniently located right on the sand of the beach. It was a little inconvenient having all that sand pile up against the sliding glass door, however, as it became difficult to close since it was always getting jammed up with sand.

I was looking around for a bed, and Sean came in, mumbling something about hotel hygiene. Mom looked at him with a knowing look.

"Bedbugs?" she asked, noting the can of bug spray in his hand.

"Bedbugs," Sean said, exasperated as he emptied the entire contents of the can into the closet and spraying himself in the process.

Mom, Greg and I retired to another room, and Greg and Mom staked out the single bed. I was standing there in the doorway, and right in front of me, smartly dressed in a turquoise skirt with black trim, a matching blazer and pillbox hat, was my granmother, Verla Buckwitz. 

She was as I imagined she might have looked in her forties, still slightly overweight, but not so slim as to be unrecognizable to me. Her skin was taut and her teeth were as white and orderly as the string of pearls around her neck. Gone was the family gap toothed grill with missing incisors. She smiled demurely as she stood there clutching her black handbag.

"Are you guys seeing this?" I asked Mom and the now sleeping Greg. "Is this real? I KNOW this isn't a Dream." 

I really did know that. There was no questioning that I was not in a dream, but in actual waking reality. My only question was of the appearance of my dead grandmother, revitalized and standing in the room with us.

"Yes, I see her too. And it certainly IS real," my mom said excitedly, with an air of "I told you so." She'd always been a big believer in the afterlife, spirits and the like. 

I was still trying to wrap my head around it. Earlier in the dream, I'd been up at Lake Isabella, and Gracie and Bill were still alive. I was about the age I am now, but my mind was preoccupied with the kinds of thoughts a teenage version of me would have had, namely: where to plant the marijuana garden? 

I walked around the back and found that someone had planted a bunch of iceplants between the back of the trailer and the fish hut. Not the best placement, I thought, as I found myself stepping on them and crushing them. The rest of the property was as I remembered it, the cottonwoods in the back, the oleanders in the front, the garage with its giant barrel of meal worms and Bill's lifesize novelty blowup doll, the wood rail fence to the east with the neighbor's two story cabin overlooking the property.

Still, all I could think about was, "Where am I gonna plant my weed?"

I'm not sure when I woke up, since this part of the dream had occurred earlier. I suppose I was still in the hotel room with my mom, Greg and Grandma Buckwitz. It hadn't dawned on me in the dream which I was certain was not a dream, that Greg was also deceased. My mom didn't seem to think his presence was in any way out of the ordinary or that he was making a special appearance of any kind.