Putting Dreams to Rest

I have recurring dreams with various subject matters, if the utter nonsense that makes up these dreams can be referred to as subject matters, thereby erroneously bestowing them with some veracity.

I am really, really tired of some of those dreams yet they play on the dream screen with the annoying repetition of “ring around the collar, ring around the collar.”  For those of you who weren’t around in the 60’s, replace that ad with one of today's more annoying auto insurance commercials.

Last night was a review of the decade's finest.  Times and locations were lumped together in a large bowl without regard to chronology and reality.  Into that, my dream-baker combined  the owning of a restaurant, an RV park, the log home my parents built and in which I grew up, the log-sided playhouse there, my husband, litter clean-up, and firing an employee for theft.  Wee pieces of reality that become completely unrecognizable in this new batter.
 

That's me in 1952 sweeping the walk in front of my playhouse.

Fold in a guy who gives horseback trips out of a nearby town, windows that wouldn’t stay closed, window blinds that wouldn’t stay down, firewood, my John Deere riding lawn mower, and ear plugs.

Frost with multiple layers of idiocy and sprinkle with improbable connections.

Stir well, half-bake at 98.6 degrees, and stand back.

I won’t go into the moronic details.  What I want to tell you is that during that dream I had a rare flash of brilliance, and my dreams are not known for brilliance of any kind.

This is what happened:

Several years ago, I dreamed my John Deere riding lawn mower suffered a serious mechanical problem.   My husband was out of town, so I dismantled it down to the last bolt and o-ring.  Ever since then I’ve been dream-nagging my husband to reassemble it so I can mow the lawns. 

Forget reality.  There’s nothing wrong with my John Deere riding mower and my husband died four years ago.  Yet, I survey the mass of pieces and nag ad nauseam as I watch my lawns overgrow.  Remember:  He's deceased.  Even in death he gets no peace.

Except for last night.

Last night, I looked at him and suggested we haul the billions of pieces to the John Deere dealer in Soldotna and have Vern, the head mechanic, reassemble it. 

My husband, though a gifted mechanic, was always reluctant to take on basket cases (the mower, not me), so he thought that a great idea.

And then came my flash of brilliance:  “You know,” I said, “It probably will cost as much in labor to have Vern reassemble the mower as it would to buy a new one…”

OMG!  I sure hope that idea puts that recurring dream to rest.