In Maniac Ridge

I was in Maniac Ridge, New Jersey, uncertain whether maniac was an adjective or a noun. The car needed gas, so I pulled into the garage of a Sunoco station. I popped the gas cap and an attendant filled the tank. (No self-service in New Jersey.) The garage was filled with vehicles in need of repair: a golf cart, a sedan, a bus. I had thirty-one papers with me, all of which needed grading, and I needed to find a place to work.

This is the eighteenth teaching-related dream I’ve had since retiring, and the third with grading. All the others: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, and 17.

[The number of papers probably owes something to J.D. Salinger’s Zooey : “Advanced Writing 24-A loaded me up with thirty-eight short stories to drag tearfully home for the weekend.”]