Redneck Golf

I just got to write this down because this is bizarre even for me. The dream for this morning was an adventure into a different world that somehow my mind relates to.

The night started with the usual problem-solving situation. I’d ridden my bike to some big building (pretty routine) and went into a grey world of cubicles and unknown yet familiar faces. Everyone was in a hurry (typical) but then the lights went out. I wander through the darkness toward the giant windows as people scurried back and forth in silent chaos. Some faces from the way-back machine but no time to talk. The flow of people was to the light. In what was an empty space, a sort of greeting area against the wall of grey, chairs had been gathers and there assembled before me was large groups of people in chairs reading pieces of paper. Were they proofreading the newspaper or checking for errors in the classifieds? I didn’t want to get involved in that mayhem but I noticed workers bringing in bicycles and stacking them in a corner. Was my bicycle in there?

So much for that dream.

A hobbalty-hobbalty down the hall for a quick release and refresh and I’m back in bed to do my nightly dance to classical music.

So here comes the weird part. I call it ‘redneck golf’.

I appear to have left the urban grey confusion to a wooded rural area where the talk is more ‘down home’ as they say.

It seems the plot in this dream was to play some golf with a few lads. The parking lot was gravel as we all welcomed each other but instead of a fancy stone and glass clubhouse, there was this wooden shack we ventured into. Wooden walls and wooden floors and surrounded by overgrown bushes and trees, it was ‘rustic’. A raven-haired beauty in loose fitting overalls and a white t-shirt was the proprietor of this country establishment and welcomed us with her down-home smile. She was complaining about a wind that done blowed through recently taking out some trees and a few folks died. In the background echoed gunshots.

Everyone was still jocularity and fun until I realize I have no clubs. I tell Pat that I have no driver.

(Disclaimer: I do know how to play golf. I know the woods and irons and did the country club circuit for enough years to know the ritual called a sport).

I was given a long piece of stick with a driver head and a handgrip. It was longer and heavier than any driver I’d ever held and branches sticking out of sides had black markings as some sort of guide to hitting the ball down the center of the fairway. I accepted my challenge and went out to the first tee.

I turn to my left and a chain link fence separates a cornfield and two figures. A man with a baseball hat or a cowboy hat (sorry, it was a dream) and a woman loudly complaining to him stood in full view. The man was looking into the cornfield and raised a semi-automatic rifle and started firing. The woman continued to yell objections to something that made no impression to the shooter. Both seemed unaware of our foursome playing through. I got up and swung my club and hit a spec and then followed the others as the shooting turned from single shots to multiple rounds from a machine gun. May we play through?

Next (try and follow) our group is in this country store. It is still this all-wooden establishment with license plates and metal advertising and photos of country singers and the usual memorabilia to be expected in any roadside rest stop of the 50’s.

There was a plastic counter wrapped in aluminum chrome with vinyl swivel stools to get a soda pop or grilled cheese sandwich with a pickle on top. Post card rack swivel and plastic wrapped tourist take-homes line the aisle as we find our balls figuring our next shot.

The armed couple from the field welcomed us and showed us southern comfort as I find my ball that has not become a small raw chicken or squab. Still I placed it on the planking and took a swing. Plop! The piece of flabby flesh flew through the air leaving a trail of somewhat disgusting liquid landed on a shelf full of boxes of rural recipes and rituals.

So I decided to pick another ball instead of loose floppy legs and ribs to choice a plastic box of something called ‘CowPie’. It was one of those little boxes that hold blueberries or blackberries in the produce area pretending it was fresh. Looking through the top the red ingredients looked like some combination of scrapple with a tomato base and some weird herb blended in a jell substance that you don’t want to open and smell.

Still this looked more solid than my poultry parts so I placed it on the floor and yelled “FORE” and took a whack at it. The container broke open showering everyone and everything in the immediate area with ‘CowPie’.

At this point I turned to Pat, who had guided us to this adventure and gave her a big hug swilling her around in some country-dance number with squeals and cheers of the observers. Together we laughed as we had done so many years ago but knowing that I was out of place and her huge husband would not approve of me handling his wife with such informality I released her and woke up.

Phew!