My mother would give my brothers and me a pile of catalogues and

Host: The snow fell softly outside the window, drifting like whispers from another time. Inside the small mountain cabin, the fireplace crackled, throwing shadows that danced along the wooden walls. The air smelled faintly of pine and coffee, and on the table lay an old stack of Christmas catalogues, their pages yellowed by years and touch.
Jack sat on a worn leather chair, his hands resting over a mug, eyes fixed on the flames. Jeeny, by contrast, sat cross-legged on the rug, gently turning the pages of a Sears catalogue from the 1980s, her fingers brushing over the pictures of toys, dolls, and bicycles.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something as simple as a catalogue could hold an entire childhood. Kary Mullis said his mother used to give him and his brothers a pile of these… and let them dream. Just dream.”

Jack: “Dream? No, Jeeny. That’s not what he meant. His mother gave them choice—or at least the illusion of it. That’s what the whole system runs on. The illusion that we choose, when in truth, we’re being led.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, roughened by cigarette smoke and a long night. Jeeny looked up, her eyes reflecting the firelight, her lips slightly parted as if to breathe in a memory.

Jeeny: “You always think everything’s an illusion, Jack. But what if it wasn’t? What if that pile of catalogues was the closest thing to freedom a child could have? Picking a dream, even if it never came true.”

Jack: “Freedom? Jeeny, it’s marketing in its purest form. You hand a child a book full of things, and you tell them: ‘Choose what you love.’ But you’ve already taught them to love the thing, not the feeling behind it. That’s not freedom. That’s conditioning.”

Host: The fire popped sharply, and a burst of sparks leapt like angry fireflies before fading into the dark. Jeeny closed the catalogue, pressing her palm against the cover as if it were a fragile artifact from another world.

Jeeny: “You’re forgetting something, Jack. Those choices, no matter how small, were seeds of imagination. A child sees a red bicycle, and suddenly he’s not just wanting it—he’s imagining the wind, the speed, the freedom. That’s not conditioning. That’s the beginning of hope.”

Jack: “Hope? Hope doesn’t pay the bills. Hope doesn’t feed the family who can’t afford even one thing from that catalogue. That child learns disappointment early—and maybe that’s the first real education they ever get.”

Host: Jack’s words hung heavy in the room, like smoke refusing to rise. Jeeny’s eyes softened, her voice trembling between tenderness and anger.

Jeeny: “And yet, even that disappointment shapes them. It teaches them to imagine beyond lack. To want isn’t always to consume—it’s sometimes to become.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. That’s how the whole dream machine works. Look at the 1950s—America selling the image of a perfect home, a perfect family, a shiny car in every driveway. It wasn’t about happiness, Jeeny. It was about control through desire.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you can’t deny that even within control, there’s creation. Mullis, that same boy flipping through catalogues, grew up to invent the PCR process—something that changed the face of science forever. Maybe those catalogues didn’t control him. Maybe they ignited him.”

Host: A pause followed—a heavy, living silence broken only by the soft hiss of the firewood. Outside, the wind pressed gently against the windows, carrying faint bells from a distant town preparing for Christmas.

Jack: “You think inspiration just comes from pretty pictures? No, Jeeny. It comes from struggle, from failure, from seeing how much you don’t have. Mullis didn’t change science because of a Christmas wish list. He changed it because he wanted to break free from limitations.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly my point! His mother didn’t give him the things—she gave him the permission to want. To choose. To imagine. That’s what those catalogues meant. Not possession, but possibility.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice grew stronger, her words glowing like embers in the dim light. Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening, as though each word scraped against something buried in his chest.

Jack: “Possibility’s a dangerous drug, Jeeny. Give it to a child without teaching them the price, and they’ll grow into adults addicted to wanting. Look around—people drowning in credit debt, chasing things that never fill them. Maybe the catalogues were the first fix.”

Jeeny: “And what’s your alternative, Jack? Raise them without dreams? Without wanting anything? Turn them into efficient machines that only calculate worth and cost?”

Jack: “Better that than false hope. At least machines don’t feel betrayed when the world doesn’t deliver.”

Host: The tension rose like a storm. The firelight flickered between them—gold, red, blue—each hue painting their faces in turns of warmth and coldness. Jeeny leaned forward now, her eyes fierce, her hands trembling slightly.

Jeeny: “You talk as if wanting something beautiful is a sin. As if dreaming of what could be is a weakness. But isn’t that what makes us human, Jack? Our capacity to desire, to imagine, to reach beyond what is real?”

Jack: “It’s also what makes us destroy ourselves. Wars have been fought over that same desire—nations collapsing under the weight of wanting more. Every empire was born from the dream of ‘what could be,’ and died in the greed for ‘what should be ours.’”

Jeeny: “But without that dream, there would be no art, no love, no science, no progress. Even your cynicism, Jack—it’s a form of longing. You’re just afraid of your own hope.”

Host: The words struck him like a sudden gust. His eyes shifted, the hard grey softening into something uncertain, almost fragile. He stared into the fire, its flames now low and steady, like a heartbeat slowing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am afraid. When I was a kid, my mother couldn’t even afford the catalogues. We used to look through newspaper ads, circle things we’d never see. I learned early that wanting hurts.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you stopped believing in it. But Jack—hurting is also how we grow. Every time a child opens one of those pages, they learn to imagine something bigger than their world. Isn’t that what evolution really is? Emotional evolution?”

Host: The room grew quieter, the storm outside softening to a gentle snow. The firelight painted both their faces in a muted glow—no longer in opposition, but in reflection.

Jack: “So, what are you saying? That wanting is sacred?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying that wanting, when paired with gratitude, becomes sacred. It’s not the catalogue that corrupts us—it’s the forgetting that what we already have was once the thing we wished for.”

Host: Jack’s breath slowed. He leaned back, letting the words linger, their meaning settling like ash over a dying fire. His eyes met hers, and for the first time that evening, they didn’t argue—they understood.

Jack: “Maybe those catalogues weren’t selling products at all. Maybe they were selling mirrors. Pages where children could see their better selves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Not mirrors of possession, but mirrors of possibility.”

Host: Outside, the snow continued to fall, gentle and endless, each flake catching a sliver of the firelight through the window. Inside, the silence was full—not empty, but alive—the kind that follows after truth has been spoken.
The catalogue lay between them, open to a page with a red bicycle gleaming beneath a painted sun. Jeeny’s hand rested on the corner; Jack’s, unconsciously, mirrored hers.

The camera would have pulled back then—past the window, past the trees, into the quiet night—leaving behind two souls, warmed by a single, shared understanding:

That even the smallest dream, born from the pages of something forgotten, can still light a fire that lasts a lifetime.