Truckin'

Dreamed I was driving a big-ass 18-wheeler through Brookline Village.

Note: This is a small, wickedly expensive neighborhood in the Brookline section of Boston. Technically, having rejected annexation in 1873, Brookline is an abutting suburb that’s almost completely surrounded by the city.

Brookline Village is filled with beautiful, magnificently restored Victorians (affordable only to the mega wealthy), cozy pubs and independently owned shops. There’s a small pottery cooperative (where, eons past, I was the resident glaze mixer/crafter) and a large weed shop (legal here in Massachusetts, don’cha know). All the streets are, at most, two lanes and parking is near impossible.

When I first moved to Boston (40+ odd years ago—yes, I am old. Just deal), Brookline Village was more than a bit run down and said to be dangerous. It borders on Mission Hill—a now-gentrifying but, back then, decidedly unsafe Boston neighborhood. Currently, here in 2023's Village, a small (1,098 sq ft) two bed/two bath condo, in an unremarkable building (late ‘60s construction), goes for $764,000. A slightly larger (1,175 sq ft) two bed/two bath in a more attractive, stylish building is selling for 1.4 million. Single family houses? Forget about it.

I don’t believe the town allows big rigs to sully their streets but, in Dream Land, there I was. Cruising down Harvard Street, cutting right on Washington Street—I was looking for parking.

Couple things:

1. Back in my driving days I was NOT a parallel parking pro. Yes, I could usually accomplish the feat but not without sweating gallons, taking a hod’s worth of Xanax and having a dedicated team of flagmen to guide me in. Also, with the exception of my Volvo wagon (now deceased), I’ve always had small to miniature autos. Driving a semi is my idea of hell. Parking one? Please!
2. I had to surrender my license in order to get a temporary disabled parking sticker. I don’t need the special parking spot anymore but, so far, I’ve been unmotivated to renew my license. I don’t enjoy driving.

Back to the dream though—I found a spot at a gas station but it was temporary. I began scouting around, on foot, for a more permanent home for my semi.

What, I ask you, WHAT does this all mean?

Perhaps the mondo big truck is me and the skinny, tree lined streets of Brookline Village is my life? That I haven’t crashed—destroying multiple store fronts, homes and expensive parked vehicles in the process—possibly translates as me giving myself credit for not banjaxing the world around me in my efforts to learn, grow, evolve and manage mi vida loca.

Looking for a place to park my life? I’ve done that already. I’m here in Valhalla and there’s absolutely no reason to move. Maybe, after two+ years of being in and out of the hospital and rehab facilities, I’m still a bit insecure—wondering if I’ll be whisked off to Mass General Hospital in the dead of night. Again.

//shrugs//

Grateful Dead—Truckin'