When I dream I am often in houses from childhood, expanded to enormous proportions. Not simply physically, as though I am remembering them as a smaller person, but as though they were demolished and rebuilt as palaces with the same basic floorplan but 20-foot ceilings, augmented with rooms on the periphery, and great spiral staircases leading from one massive floor to another.
Lest you imagine this some vision of the afterlife (and I can't imagine a rendering of "many mansions" that is, at least superficially, more tender and nostalgic) these are often the scenes of heated conflict with family both living and dead, and attribute their cause (since the vivid ones almost invariably follow a surfeit of meat at a late dinner) to my digestion. I interpret it to mean that, though an adult, I still stand in childish awe of those older generations and what they, metaphorically, built.
In one, I had somehow come to live in my grandparents' house, transformed from a small Craftsman cottage to a giant bungalow with a huge porch and overhanging eaves, and spied my aunt, dressed in her bunad, leading a small army of similarly clad Norwegian ladies, all embroidery and wool and dazzling white linen with silver dangles glinting in the sun, up the rear garden path to the open back door -- it was a hot day. For some reason I was angry and could not let them in, and I slammed the door in their faces and awoke with my shout "Out!" still ringing in my ears.