Yesterday morning as I drove out the Van Dyke Freeway north of Detroit I found myself in familiar territory. So familiar in fact that as I neared the exit for Romeo, Michigan, my brain sent out the command, "Turn on your left turn signal". I ignored it.
About a quarter mile further along the road my brain again said, just a bit more insistently, "Turn on your turn signal". I kept moving.
Soon I was perilously near the exit. My brain enunciated very clearly, "Turn. On. Your. Left. Signal."
I drove past the Romeo exit. "You missed your turn!" my brain exclaimed.
No I didn't, Marty's brain. I wasn't going to Romeo. I was going to Imlay City about 25 miles beyond there to deliver two drain snakes and a cable. What gave my brain conniptions was that I am seldom that far north on the Van Dyke Freeway unless I'm going to the orchards around Romeo. For coming up on 40 years now, you understand, my family and I have went to Romeo in the fall for apples and pumpkins. My brain expected I was going there.
Why does it seem odd to be in familiar places at the wrong time? It did indeed feel weird to be near Romeo and not buying apples. In fact it felt odd to be there without the fall colors, seeing pumpkins all over the fields, and without taking the time to feed the goats behind what has become a regular stop when in the area, a neat little store called Frontier Town (whom I don't mind at all giving a plug; you should go there). It really seemed as though I should not have been near Romeo at all.
I suppose there's a psychological explanation for it. Ah well; explanations or not, I did have to stop at Frontier Town on the way back home to take in the aroma of its coffee, buy a couple pounds of it, and spend a few minutes trading tales with the proprietor. My brain felt better for it too.
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