Crazy

No, not me.  Or not just me.  My dreams.

The last scene, from which I woke up too early, featured my father, wearing something resembling an environmental bunny suit to cover everything but his face, at a Wendy’s.  He had stopped there, ordered a burger and fries, and I was in time to witness him grabbing a ketchup packat before heading into the dinging area off to the side.  Not just any ketchup packet!  It was oversized, labeled all natural, made with sugar.  It was meant to be an alternative to the unhealthy ketchups, or something.  When I caught up with him, he was standing, squeezing ketchup onto a few fries at a time and eating them.

What’s funny, beyond the whole “good ketchup” thing, is my father wouldn’t be caught dead putting ketchup of any kind on his fries.  Oh, he’d probably eat a little if he had to, if it was there accidentally or something, but he prefers plain, maybe a bit of salt.  Plain burgers, too.  He seemed to think that this new ketchup was what he’d been waiting for all his life.  I woke from that.  Oh, he also was living in Abington, and that was where the Wendy’s was.

However, that was just part of a slightly disjointed sequence that was, nonetheless, connected.

I forget the exact order, but the scene preceding that one involved my brother’s house in East Bridgewater having burned down recently.  While the location didn’t look exactly like where he is, with far more cultivated land than even his substantial garden, and no orchard or blueberries adjacent, it seemed close, for a dream.  I either arrived there with him, or met him there.  I had been somehow unaware that the place had burned and they had moved.  He so utterly hated the new place that he had a mental block and couldn’t remember or convey to me the address, but he could find his way to it if he drove there.  He had let his wife pick it out so she’d be happy, but he was struggling with it.  I never saw the new place.

Prior to that, I was at my grandmother’s house in Bridgewater, with the truck parked in her upper driveway.  It was acting up, and I was looking under the hood, I believe with Wayne.  The alternator mechanism was still spinning, long after turning it off, shades of the way the fan will continue to cool the radiator for a time after you park, at least in newfangled vehicles like the ones made after, say, the seventies.  Worse, there was no belt between it and a series of associated pulleys, but the pulley on the alternator was rubbing against something and making a shower of sparks, just like a grinder.

The weirdest thing, which didn’t even hit me until well after I woke… When lifting the hood, parts of what was under the hood, including said alternator mechanism, lifted with the hood, putting them in easy view and reach.  In the dream, I was more concerned about how I’d been able to drive so far without the alternator, whether the sparks were a hazard, and how I would get it fixed and be able to do all the driving I needed to do.  I wasn’t thinking about it being alternaterealityville.  I think the scenes that followed were associated, and I was trying to ask my father his opinion about the specific problem.

Something related came before that, but it’s escaped my memory.

1. Hmmm… a picky eater, wearing a funny outfit, consuming mostly plain food at a Wendy’s in Abington… Hey wait?! Are you sure that was your dad and not me??!!  LOL!!

   Ah genetics… gotta love ‘em.

   Posted by  on  09/14  at  08:21 PM  from 
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