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In my youth, nightmares, ethereal in substance real in effect, were twisted distortions and dark festering thoughts. Even upon waking, the frightened feelings lingered. I never could recall these dark dreams in any significant detail or attach any meaning to them but their effect left a protracted sense of fear and dread. Whenever these evil harpies forced me awake, I would go to the landing at the top of the stairs and call down in a soft inquiring voice, "Grandpa?" He would come to the bottom of the steps knowing even before he asked that a dream had frightened me. He would come up the stairs, lift me up in his arms, and carry me down to the kitchen. Setting me down on one of the old white kitchen chairs, he would fumble around in the utensil drawer until he found my Charlie McCarthy spoon. Opening the Frigidaire "Cold-Spot" he would scoop out a Charlie McCarthy spoonful of real butter which he sprinkled with sugar. As the taste of sweet butter melted in my mouth, we sat together and in quiet voices we talked about our day and what we were going to do tomorrow. His cure always worked. The sweet taste of butter and sugar and his soft gentle caring replaced the lingering bad dreams.