But while fiddling to install a new set of deadbolt locks the other day, that long-forgotten dream of being a locksmith rose from the mists of my labors

Around age 12 or so, locks of all sorts held such a peculiar fascination that I began to collect keys. By their names alone, skeleton keys imparted feelings of sinister mystery. In those days, many locked doors could be opened simply: try different skeleton keys until one worked. So a fistful of jangling skeleton keys imparted an aura of pre-teen importance.

Keys have personalities all their own. Lying in front of me now is a sack of keys I've accumulated over the years, many still recognizable, some still useful. Through them former vehicles—Bluie, Push Kitty, VanGo and Red Dragon—roll the roads once more.

Keys to the American Tourister suitcase my aunt gave me when I went to college in 1963 and the suitcase Mary's father gave her 1962 languish until they're called into service. And they might be.

But others won't be. Keys for jewelry boxes, diary clasps and footlockers. Keys for former houses and offices. Keys whose identities refuse to declare themselves. Yet I hang on to them "just in case." Sadly, there are no skeleton keys.

Years later, I recall often sitting in a stuffy classroom in the old engineering building at Fayetteville and watching the civil engineers take their lessons in the spring weather outside. They'd peer through their transits, scribble notations—and then pack their gear to the next location. The goal, I believe, was to survey a circuitous course and eventually end up back where they had begun.

Being able to survey would be a swell skill, I mused, and I always intended to take an elective course. But the struggle to shoehorn the requisite 143 hours into the rapidly-diminishing supply of semesters never afforded the opportunity. But even today, I'd still like to be able to survey—and even use a sextant to navigate by the stars.

I also dreamed of learning to weld and braze and even considered a course at a local high school not many years ago. Many times I've needed to make a repair or construct some simple device and have been stopped cold because I couldn't fuse two pieces of metal.

The dreams of youth have a way of being shuttled to sidetracks by college, careers and children. Right now it doesn't look like I'll do much more writing for magazines, newspapers or books. And I'm confident that secret visions of being a spy are firmly out of reach.

But what about those other dreams—welding and surveying and Spanish?

Curious, I called the UA Community College at Morrilton yesterday to investigate special deals for old people. After age 60, they told me, tuition is waived. And as it happens, I'll be 60 the day before the new term begins.

Like cats, dreams may slumber all day, then arise in the evening... ready to roam.