An Open Letter To The Sandman.

Dear Sandman,

Hey there. It's me. Eimer. Do you remember me? If not, let me refresh your memory.

When I was a kid in Martins Ferry, Ohio, almost every night I would see you creep into my room with that purple Crown Royal bag filled with sleeping sand.

But, before I could open my eyes and say "Gotcha", you would do your magic and dump a couple loads onto my eyelids. I would be in la-la land for eight to ten hours every single night.

Not a care in the world.

I'm not sure if you remember or not but, on Christmas Eve night in 1979, I left some cookies and milk right next to Santa Claus' dish for you to eat. Remember that?

Yeah, that was me. I'm not sure how many other kids would've go the extra mile for you like I did. Huh?

Then came high school and college. Man, you must have been working overtime with the sand. I remember logging, on average, 12-hour sleeps almost every night. I even missed some classes because of your work.

It was around this time Metallica sang a song praising your work. I really enjoyed that song. No. No, really. I did. Sometimes I hear it on the radio and think about the good ol' days between us.

They were pretty crazy times weren't they?

Then, after college, you would continue to dump the fairy dust. Thanks to my good-old alarm clock, I was able to wake-up, rub the sand from my eyes and get to work on time. And I never did thank-you for helping me out on those drug- and alcohol- fueled weekends. I really needed to get some sleep and you came through in the clutch.

Good times. Good times. It reminds me of the lyrics to the song Oh La La by The Faces.

"I wish that I knew what I know now, When I was younger."

Sigh.

Which brings me to the reason I'm writing you. It's been a couple years since I've seen you around at night on a consistent basis.

Oh sure, maybe you've stopped by to sprinkle a couple specks on my eyelids now and again. But not like you used to.

Now, it seems like I'm waking up every two or three hours.

I guess what I'm saying is I'm missing the sand, man. I'm missing the sand.

And don't think I haven't seen you tip-toeing around the house dropping sand on my two-year old daughter's eyes. I've even seen you drop a couple specks on my wife-to-be's as well.

But not mine. And, for some strange reason, you've been missing my 5-month old son too. What's up with that?

Did I do something to upset you? Are you running out of magic sand? Do you need some help? I can pay you. Seriously, it's not much. But, I can pay you.

I guess I'm just asking that when you fly through Bath, Ohio, tonight; could you please make sure to bring a couple extra bags of that special magic sand. Because I'm in dire need of a good night's rest.

Oh, and just a reminder to drop a couple extra loads on my son's eyes as well? He really needs it.

Well that's about it. Thanks for all your hard work thus far.

Anxiously awaiting your visit and thanking you in advance,

Eimer

P.S. Down the line, if you need a break I would be willing to help you out on a couple midnight sleep runs. Pro bono, of course. For all the great work you've done for me (remember Spring Break 1993?), I could never bring it upon myself to send you an invoice.