Oh, not because the kids are rebellious in the dream. No, in all my “bad” teaching dreams, it’s never the kids’ fault.

It’s always me.

Not the musical ear-worms, like that song you hear once in the morning that still haunts you as you go to bed at night. No, I discussed those linguistic ear-worms that you hear other people say over and over again every time they open their mouths.

You know what I mean — that teenager who can’t keep his mouth from saying “You know” after every six or eight words.

Or his sister who spews “Like” before every sentence when she recounts a conversation she had.

Or your brother-in-law who says “Literally” like literally a million times, you know?

OK, that’s going to take some explaining.

Let’s go back about 25 years, to the day I went into a music shop, hoping to sell a black Les Paul electric guitar that I owned.

I’m talking about my Halloween costume, of course. I wasn’t a bum every day, though there are those who might dispute that.

That thought came home to me the other day as I sat on the patio, shucking what would probably be the last of the best farmer’s market corn for this season. I was in no hurry, sitting in the Huntley autumn sunshine, admiring the perfect symmetry of a perfect ear of corn that would perfectly grace my dinner table that night.

The only person in the place was my favorite bartender Tammy, so we quickly caught up on the “what have you been up to” news you share you see somebody only once every couple of weeks or so.

“That’s not corn anymore,” he said.

Go ahead and read it again if you want. I’ll wait.

Whenever I go to visit, he dashes circles around my legs, praying to play fetch. (The dog, not my son. That would be creepy.)

The yard is filled with fetchable things — chewed up tennis balls, bones, sticks, rubber toys — and all I have to do is choose one of them and give it a toss. Cinder the spaniel dashes off and brings it back.

Not because of the Independence Day parade I had planned to visit later in the day. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to that. Crowds, heat, and impending rain are not a red-letter recipe for a day well spent, in my opinion.

And then stay home. Fire up the grill. Char those burgers and brats. Lay into that potato salad and coleslaw with a vengeance, as if it offended you somehow.

No, not the jewelry kind of rings. It wouldn’t take me long to do that, because I only own one — my wedding ring, which I haven’t worn in seven years, since I lost my wife of 48 years.

And not the rings of wood on the front of my guitar, which has a sort of tiger-swirl pattern that defies count.

Oh, that wasn’t my intention, I assure you. When I started out, it was a cool and cloudy day, perfect for a bike ride of 12 miles or so. But the drizzle began by the time I hit mile four, so I turned around. By the time I got home, I was pretty wet.

“Right lane closed 3 miles ahead,” the sign said. Car after car politely pulled into the crowded left lane—and because I was the one driving at the time, I zipped past in the now-much-faster right lane.

“This lane is closing,” Jim said.

“Right,” I confirmed. “In three miles.”

“No, see,” we said, interrupting her, “there were two dozen eggs — 24 — and there’s one missing from these cartons. That makes 23 eggs. There’s one missing.”

But when they were little, my wife insisted that every treacherous death-dealing outlet be blocked from the grandkids’ imaginative explorations. I actually wrote about it once in my column, long ago.

Adam Smith devised “The Law of Supply and Demand” in 1776 to explain why some things are expensive and other things are cheap.

Sir Isaac Newton came up with “The Three Laws of Motion” in 1687 to explain why objects either sit still or move around.

It’s not reincarnated lifetimes I’m talking about here, though it might as well be when it comes to Cory. The last time I saw him he had lived three full lives at the least. By now he must be well past five.

And holiday get-togethers, or election years? Forget about it.

Sears! Of course! The low-tech Amazon of a century ago, with the mail-order catalog from which you could buy a hat, a hammer, or even a house.

It’s a fun word to say. Try it. “Oligarch.”

No, it’s not Santa’s arrival that I find my heart a-flutter for. It’s not the Star of Bethlehem or midnight madness sales or Bing Crosby film reruns. “It’s a Wonderful Life” would have been a good guess, but it’s not that either.

That turkey you want to roast? Just buy the right bird, season it according to the recipe, check the temperature and the time, and you’ll be fine.

To be clear, I found the Empire team all to be good people when they came to rip out the carpets in my house and replace them with laminate flooring. Those weary, well-weathered carpets were long overdue to be replaced, and just watching the Empire team pull them up made me want to call a hazmat team as a backup.

I thought it was a logical question to ask, because if there is such an age, I must surely be creeping up on it — if I hadn’t already slid past it.