I need to be psychoanalyzed.  No one has dreams like mine.  First you need some background concerning my recent thoughts and activities.

My current problem is the plugged drain to our kitchen sink.  The plug is about 16 feet down the pipe and underneath the concrete slab that is our kitchen floor.  I had more than one dream in the night about plugged drains.

Two evenings ago I went home teaching with my newly-assigned home teaching companion, Ken Hutchison.  Ken is in his upper 70s, is stiff, and walks with difficulty.  I didn’t think he was going to be able to get into my car.  It took him four tries.  First he sat down and got one leg in; but since his back and neck don’t bend, there was no way for him to duck his head and get it in, too.  So he stood back up and tried putting his leg in first.  Same result.  He finally accomplished the feat by sticking his head in first, twisting his body, and pulling his legs in one at a time.  This guy was up on his roof shoveling off snow this winter!

Our Relief Society president who was called four months ago was released two Sundays ago.  She and her husband are to begin their in-stake missionary service in April as the caretakers of Catherine Creek Lodge.  Alayna Carpenter was called as the new Relief Society president.

Adam sent me an internet link to a terrifying video that a guy made as he climbed the communications antenna on top of the Empire State Building.  Such antennas have to periodically be serviced.  Adam knows how I feel about heights.  They’re my worst nightmare.  It’s not surprising that I’d fit his video into my dream somehow.

Then you need to know that I once worked in town for Farm Credit Services.  It was near Basche-Sage Place where Kevin’s office is now.  I visited him there this week, and while looking out his window, commented on the deplorable state of the Basche-Sage parking lot.  He assured me that there was little likelihood that the 90-year-old owner of the place, who lives in Hawaii, and who hasn’t visited here in 10 years, would be fixing anything soon.

Leaving Kevin’s office, I left my car in that parking lot, threaded my way through the puddles, and walked to my bank where I withdrew some cash so that I’d have it in my wallet when I go to Richland, Washington on Monday to pick up the 14 fruit trees I’ve ordered.

You should also know that this spring or summer we intend to paint our house.  Marjorie is vacillating between painting it white or a shade of gray.  I’m wondering about a very light blue.

With that background, I will proceed with my dream:

The drain was plugged at my workplace in Baker.  I was sent to a store across Main Street to purchase some “Rogheet’s Welding Fluid.”  I had no idea what Rogheet’s Welding Fluid was, and wondered if I’d heard right.

I made my way through the chuck-holed, frost-heaved, puddled parking lot with difficulty.  Main Street and its buildings were also in disrepair.  I made it into the store.  Alayna Carpenter cheerfully waited on me.  I hesitantly asked if she had any Rogheet’s Welding Fluid.

“Sure thing,” she said, and handed me a plastic jug from a shelf.  The jug looked exactly like the container of Liquid-PLUMR that I’d emptied down our drain the previous evening.  Alayna said, “That will be $10.”  I wanted to tell her to charge it to the place where I worked, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember its name.  I was relieved to remember that there was a $10 bill in my wallet from the money I’d gotten at the bank.  I paid Alayna with my own money, and would get my workplace to reimburse me.

I made my way back to the Basche-Sage parking lot where I found Ken Hutchison working on our drain.  He and I put plastic pipes together, snaking them through the parking lot, and successfully got the drain flowing.  It was emptying underneath the Basche-Sage building where no one would see it.  The effluent looked suspiciously like the black gunk I’d gotten out of the goose-neck under my kitchen sink.  Suffice it to say that it was gross.  I felt sorry for the people in Basche-Sage, but they’d never know.

Ken and I then took note of what Baker had done to improve the looks of the city.  Everything south of Basche-Sage had been spray-painted dark gray:  the buildings, the sidewalks, the cars, and the trees.  Even the sky was overcast and gray.  Everything was gray, but shiny.  It was quite striking.  But even more striking was Basche-Sage.  It and everything on that side of town was a beautiful turquoise blue.

Having gotten the drain fixed I headed back to work.  It dawned upon me that Farm Credit Services was my destination.  Marjorie’s voice came out of somewhere as she said, “It’s so sad that place is so hard to get into.  It’s a wonder why anyone would go there!”

I’d never before thought of it being hard to get into until she pointed it out, but she was right.  I had to climb up onto a 4-inch-wide ledge on the outside wall, and sidle my way to the corner.  At the corner was an 8-inch-square pillar that was set out from the wall about six inches.  I tried to slip between the wall and the pillar, but didn’t fit (Ken trying to get into my car?).  I could only get around the corner by hanging onto the pillar and swinging myself around it while feeling with my foot for the ledge where it continued around the next wall.

Of course the ledge was high above the ground.  I didn’t dare look behind me or down or I’d have lost the courage to go back to work.

I made it around the pillar, but as I sighted down the wavy wall, I could see no door.  With my nose to the wall I bravely went about six feet along the ledge and carefully felt around the first wave in the wall where I hoped I’d find a door knob.  I was not disappointed.  It was right where it should have been.  I opened the door and stepped in.  I was never so glad to be somewhere.  I was safe, the drain was working, the town was painted, and everything was right in my world.

Am I going crazy, or have I already arrived?