The Brilliance of Forgetting

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Well that’s a relief! I just found out that forgetfulness is a sign of exceptional intelligence. If that’s the case I must be a genius because I’m one of those folks who walks from one room to another with great purpose and then ends up wondering why I’m standing in a closet in a state of confusion. I’ve had to incorporate all sorts of apps into my routine just to keep track of appointments and passwords and even to handle a record of tasks that I need to complete. If the electricity ever went our for several days I’d be up a creek wandering about dazed and disorganized.

I’ve never been good at recalling things like my license plate number. That’s why I so loved my GAMMY 7 car with its never to forget personalized identification. When I eventually gifted the car to my grandsons I was happy to help them out, but I hated losing the one thing identified by a series of letters and numbers that I never ever forgot. It does’t even seem like the same car with its now generic set of symbols. I’d probably lose it in a parking lot without its familiar name smiling at me on that little metal plate. I’d be wandering about hoping to hear a little honking sound as I pressed the remote on my key fob.

I have to look up the numbers on my driver’s license every single time that someone asks me for that bit of identification, but I can spout my social security info without even thinking because I’ve had to be able to retrieve that combination of numbers since I was a student. It’s been an important piece of usefulness for jobs and all sorts of situations, so it’s become second nature to me like my name or my phone number. Speaking of which, having both a land line and cell can become a bit confusing, but so far I’ve managed to differentiate between the two. I keep wondering if it’s time to ditch the land land though because it has become rare for me or anyone that I know to use it.

I’ve always had a bit of dyslexia so I frequently transpose numbers, a tendency which can be lethal when teaching mathematics. I learned long ago to always check my solutions to problems. I became rather adept in determining if an answer appeared to make sense or not. Whenever I made a mistake while instructing my students I used it as a way to encourage them by admitting that we all have those moments of imperfection. I also took that time to demonstrate how to assess an answer in terms of whether or not it made sense. Nonetheless to this very day I sometimes find myself freezing in terror when faced with the seven and nine multiplication facts. I have to take a deep breath and hope that my brain is not so rattled that I make a fool of myself in front of my students.

When it comes to birthdays I’m really bad. Facebook has done me one of the grandest favors of my lifetime by reminding me of who is celebrating on any given day. Unfortunately their algorithm does not always choose to keep me in touch with all of the people that I definitely want to remember, so I suspect that I am missing a few of my favorite people from time to time. I ask anyone who has been forgotten to just understand that I’m not a birthday wizard. I know mine, those of my children and my grandchildren. After that I have to check a calendar.

A friend was asking me about someone’s address recently. I had no idea how to respond. I’m one of those kooky women who is able to drive to the homes of my friends and family members strictly by dent of landmarks and house styles and colors. If you ask me for numbers and sometimes even street names I’m lost, but I know exactly what places of business are on the corners where I must turn and I have an uncanny sense of direction. I know immediately whether or not I am traveling the right way even in a deep fog. In spite of that I still think of Siri as my new best friend as she navigates me all over the country. It’s as though I have a dear companion in the seat next to me making certain that I will never get lost.

I know people who describe life events with exact dates. I can’t remember whether an occasion transpired this year or a decade ago. I hate the medical forms that ask me when I broke my foot. I really have no idea how old I was other than the fact that I was young enough to participate in a miles long fund raiser. I didn’t wear proper shoes for the occasion and I ended up with a stress fracture because I did not yet I know that I had osteoporosis and was more likely than most to get broken bones. i suppose that I am one of those folks whose mind keeps track of general details rather than specifics.

I am able to recall events and conversations from my childhood quite vividly. For that matter any situation involving an encounter with another person is planted clearly in my mind. I suppose that such incidents are of particular importance to me. It is as though I can actually relive them, hear the voices, see the details and colors, have the same feelings. I find myself back in those times as though they were happening right now. It’s so strange how the mind works. I wonder how we unconsciously decide what is important enough to recall with clarity?

When I was a teenager working as a receptionist for our family doctor during the summer I learned about the power of knowing how and where to find information. The kindly physician showed me his vast collection of medical books and demonstrated how he would listen to a patient’s description of symptoms and then use the volumes to match them to a disease and its requisite treatments. That’s when I realized that we never really know everything, at least those of us who are not brilliant savants. It was quite freeing to understand that much of education teaches us how to find the resources that lead us to the answers that we need.

As I grow older I must indeed be getting more and brilliant if the research is to be believed because I am more and more forgetful without the electronic reminders that I have set in place. I have to say that our brave new world of information right at our fingertips has come along at just the right time of life for me. I can at least face the world without looking ridiculously confused about what to do next. Still, I miss those lovely calendars that I used to religiously carry in my purse or briefcase. Being the tactile learner that I am made them all the more meaningful. I found myself recalling the color coding that I used and the little pictures that I drew to emphasize the importance of certain things. I suppose that like Mitt Romney I still prefer relying on binders to sort and organize my life. Those images on little screens sometimes rattle my dyslexia in a way that the paper images never did, but at least they don’t get lost and they take the time to remind me of what I need to do with bells and whistles and little bubbles. I’m growing more and more fond of them by the day, at least until those moments when I can’t find my phone or my laptop.

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Fifty Shades of Grey

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It was one of those days when the skies were grey, the streets were slick and the air was heavy with fog. It might have been a great day to stay home with a good book, but we had appointments to keep and errands to run. The traffic was stacked up and moving slower than normal so I had ample opportunity to see things that might otherwise have passed by without notice. Some of what I viewed made me sad, others made me laugh.

There was a billboard advertising a Brazilian butt lift with prices starting as low as $35,000. I chuckled at the very idea, but mostly I wondered why anyone would be willing to pay that much money for something so silly. Surely everyone has better ways of investing or spending such a large amount. Even a very wealthy person would be better served by giving it to charity or providing a valued worker with a bonus. Somehow making one’s fanny more appealing seems as wasteful as one gets, so I began thinking of literally hundreds of alternative ways to use the cash more wisely, not the least of which was to save it or provide some worthy college student with a scholarship. Even tossing it into the bucket of one of the many homeless people begging on street corners has more merit, but who am I to judge?

Next we went to an office filled with the nauseating bouquet of room fresheners. It seems that a rodent had died somewhere on the premises and the foul odor was sickening the employees. An exterminating company had come out to set traps but refused to go hunting for the creature’s carcass. I suppose it will be some time before the blended aroma of rotting flesh and artificial scents will be gone from the premises. I truly feel for the workers because my own reaction was to get away as quickly as possible.

Speaking of rats I suppose that they are only behaving normally in light of all of the rain that we have had this winter. It’s predicted that wildflowers will be better than ever, but our lawns are as soggy as sponges and mud seems to be coating everything and everyone. Little wonder that the rats are attempting to find refuge. I’ve heard more than one story of those pests invading homes and businesses. You really know that there has been too much rain when the animals run for cover. I suspect that mosquitoes will be as abundant as the bluebonnets because of the wet season that has marked most of our January and February days this year. Now that’s something to think about that gives me the shudders!

Eventually I found myself sitting in a waiting room at an imaging center feeling increasingly uncomfortable as others around me reacted to the appearance of President Trumps former attorney Michael Cohen speaking before Congress. The level of anger being expressed by the people around me without even a small attempt to filter  what they were saying made me worry about the state of our country. I found myself sinking quietly into my little corner of the room burying my thoughts in a crossword game on my phone lest I too become involved in an outburst of emotions. I silently worried about the future in ways that I never before have.

As we were leaving the medical facility a Code Blue was announced on the PA system. I was both amazed and quite impressed by the rapid response of the nurses and doctors. They quickly found the woman who had fainted and brought her back to an alert state. I realized how professional and dedicated they are and felt that if anything like that ever happens to me I will be in very good hands. It ended up that the woman had come for a blood transfusion and had become dizzy while in transit to her doctor. All ended well but it was like a scene out of one of the many hospital series that I watch on television. It made for a bit of unexpected excitement to go along with the crazy tone of the day.

As if the my journey needed to become a bit stranger we were getting close to home when a woman turned in front of our truck going the wrong way on a one way street. The look on her face when she realized what she had done said it all. Her features were marked with sheer terror. Luckily we were the only other auto on the street at the time so she was able to make a quick u-turn and drive away. A few minutes later and a fleet of fast moving vehicles would have made her escape almost impossible and who knows what kind of accident might have ensued.

I’m normally a person who enjoys rain and prefers colder weather, but I have to say that the weeks and weeks of damp dreary days have grown old. I think we all need a few sunny days to dry things out and lighten our moods. We’ve been stuck indoors for too long and the ugliness that hangs over us like a shroud is causing us to act a bit strangely. Old man sun needs to come back to bring smiles to our faces again.

I really don’t know how folks survive in places known for more rainy days than not. I suppose that they somehow adapt, but it’s not something that I would like to have to do. I say bring on the warmth and let us play outside. I’m done with the fifty shades of grey that have been the norm for way too long, and I suspect that everyone else is as well.

Older Than Dirt

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I just saw a Facebook post called Older Than Dirt that lists seventeen items that have mostly gone the way of the buggy whip. If you are familiar with ten or more of them you supposedly qualify for the title Older Than Dirt. There were seventeen things listed and I not so fondly remembered all of them, so I guess that I’m officially ancient. I hadn’t even thought about or missed most of the items, but I felt a slight tug of nostalgia when I saw them on the list. I also realized that in many ways I’m part of a generation that has straddled the old ways and the new.

I still recall the weird inconvenience of being on a telephone party line. I must have been about five or so when we finally got our own private line. Before then it was not all that unusual to lift the receiver and hear someone who lived in another house talking away. My mom taught me the code of phone etiquette which meant that I would hang up quickly and be certain that I never mentioned anything that I might have heard. Even then it seemed weird to have to share telephone time with complete strangers, but it was the way things actually were. I had totally forgotten about that strange situation until I saw it listed with a string of other oldies. While party lines may sound unbelievable to young folk, I encountered an even more old time way of talking on the phone when I visited my grandparents in rural Arkansas. They actually had to go through the services of an operator to make a call, something that I had only seen in old movies from the thirties and forties.

I never knew what eventually happened to Studebakers, but my aunt and uncle owned one. It was a sporty little car that was much more adventurous looking than than the big featureless models that most people drove back then. I still remember being filled with awe whenever my aunt and uncle drove up in their Studebaker. They were young and attractive and newly married. To five year old me they looked like movie stars, and when they took me for a ride in their automobile I felt like a celebrity. The last Studebaker I ever saw belonged to my husband’s best friend. The car was old and doing its best to fall apart. The designers had lost their mojo and turned it into a featureless box, which is no doubt why the line of cars went the way to the junkyard, but I would always remember just how sweet the models were in the early nineteen fifties.

By the time my girls were using roller skates they simply slipped on a boot with wheels, but when I was a child we had roller skates that would last a lifetime because the parts were adjustable. The process of properly sizing the skates involved using a metal key to lengthen or shorten and fit the mechanism onto the sole of whatever shoe the skater was wearing. A pair of skates that came to a five year old at Christmas time might last until they were no longer used as a teenager. Our mothers usually found some twine or ribbon to make a kind of necklace on which we kept the key that made the whole thing work. I used to keep mine inside my jewelry box so that I might quickly find it whenever I got the urge to skate.

We had very few luxuries in our home, but one that my mom faithfully used was milk delivery. Our milkman left the white liquid on our front porch in big glass gallon containers. Once the milk was gone Mama would rinse out the bottle and then leave it on the porch to be recycled by the milk company which for us was always Carnation. We got to know the milkman better than the mailman because he came with three or four gallons of milk every week and rang our doorbell to let us know that the bottles had arrived. My brothers were voracious milk drinkers and my mother often attributed their strong teeth and bones to the calcium that they consumed. Eventually grocery stores were close enough that it was easier to just make a quick trip for some milk and the idea of having things delivered to the house went away. Now I laugh that young folk think that home food delivery is a new thing.

We used to use ice trays to make the cubes that we used to cool our water or tea. Back in the day they were made of metal and used a large handle to release the ice. Even the best ones never really worked very well, so when the flexible plastic ones came along it felt as though someone had invented a miracle device. The problem was that the trays took up a considerable amount of space inside the freezer section of the refrigerator so there was never much ice available at any give time. If someone neglected to refill the trays, which happened far too often, we were reduced to drinking things at room temperature like so many Europeans do. The ice makers of today are a joyful luxury that still leave me in awe each time I see the almost boundless supply of frozen water.

The Older Than Dirt list included drive in movie theaters which are worthy of an entire blog, and candy cigarettes which made us feel grown up and sophisticated in a time when it seemed as though every adult smoked without knowing the dangers. There were metal lunch boxes which often featured our favorite movie and television characters like Roy Rogers. They held our baloney sandwiches and apples and thermoses of warm milk. There were forty five rpm records that we played on speakers that sounded tinny, and Blackjack gum which to me tasted like melted blacktop. Our soda machines dispensed glass bottles that we had to either leave once we were finished drinking or had to pay a deposit to take with us. There was Butch Wax for styling hair that I never used because it was a product for the boys, but we gals had Dippity Do which we slathered on our hair along with our curlers so that we might create the enormous bouffants of the sixities. There were five and dime stores which were small versions of Walmart, and home economics classes where students learned how to run a household efficiently long before Marie Kondo came to tell us what to do. Books came with records that in a sense were the first audio versions of our favorite stories, and rather unsophisticated drinkers consumed Boone’s Farm wine.

Yes, I knew about all of those things, but I also realized how far we have come in making the world far better than it once was. I can only think of a few things on the list that we might do well to emulate in a more modern way. Recycling glass bottles was a great idea and I’d like to see it happen again. Those stunning Studebakers of the early fifties were a sight to see. Drive In movies were a great place to take the kids on summer evenings. The metal lunchboxes were akin to Bento boxes and prevented much wasting of paper. Most of the rest were fun while we had them, but hardly worth reinventing. We’ve moved on and in most cases it has been for the best. I like my streaming music and the mountains of ice at my fingertips. Nostalgia is fine but progress is better, especially when it takes the health of our planet into account. 

A Tight Fit

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Getting a truck into a garage is not easy. It’s a tight fit on at least one side, and in my case that side is the wrong side. We have a two car garage and for years I zipped into the left side with my little Honda CRV. It was perfect for me in every conceivable way. I had tons of room to my right, and I was able to judge my distance from the wall to my left with ease. Besides the car was seemingly made to fit just right in the space. There was nary a problem getting in and out.

Then we decided to give that little car to my grandsons and learn to get by with one auto. After all we rarely go to different places at the same time, and it seemed to be a wise move for dealing with the over abundance of vehicles in our world. We kept our truck because it was newer and the means of pulling our trailer. The problem for me was that it didn’t fit on the side of the garage to which I had become accustomed. Husband Mike’s work bench on the left hand section of the garage made it impossible to get the truck all the way inside, so I had to learn how to navigate in a very narrow space with a wall on my far right. It has not been easy.

Mike hung a little red object from the ceiling to help me to orient myself. It not only gives me a way of determining if I am entering the confined space at approximately the best angle, but also tells be when it’s time to stop the truck lest I take out the back wall. It’s a challenge each time I drive inside, and on most occasions I just barely manage to get things right, even though my tendency is to lean a bit too far to the right.

I’ve just brushed the small shelf that juts out from the wall or almost knocked over the ladder that hangs from a hook. Once I took out a lightbulb on a Christmas decoration that lives along the perimeter for eleven months out of the year because it won’t fit through the opening to the attic. All in all, though, I’ve done fairly well even though entering the garage invariably stresses me out.

A few night ago I came home rather late after helping my grandsons review for a math test. I was tired and feeling a bit distracted, a fact that wasn’t helped by the fact that we just got new neighbors next door and I was craning my neck just a bit to see who they were. I didn’t take the usual precautions as I pulled forward into the opening and soon enough heard a crunch when the right side mirror hit the side of the garage. I no doubt would have been fine if I had simply kept moving forward but my brain was fried from the study session and I was thinking logically. I decided to try to back up and reorient the truck, a decision that resulted in the mirror getting jammed between the garage door frame and the body of the truck. At that point all reason seemed to leave me.

I got out and inspected the dilemma and truly had no idea what to do next. I imagined that if I just went forward I would take out every object hanging on the wall and do untold damage, so I slowly inched backward while I listened to the crunch of the mirror against the door frame and heard the crash of plastic as its backing fell to the floor. My only consolation was that the mirror was still attached to the body of the truck. Otherwise I had a mess that I knew would make Mike very unhappy and lead to questions as to how I got myself into such a pickle in the first place. I was not happy with myself as I adjusted my entry angle one more time and successfully eased the behemoth of a vehicle into the narrow space.

It was late so when Mike came out to welcome me back home my only comment was to mention that I may have buggered up the side mirror. Mike winced with one of those “what did you do now?” kind of expressions, but took my advice that we should just go to bed and think about the destruction tomorrow. Nothing was fatal, but I felt like an idiot and was a bit too tired to discuss my lack of advanced driving skills in the heat of the moment.

I found myself thinking back to my driving test of long ago. I failed the first go around because I knocked over the cones when attempting to parallel park. I was already a bit older than most folk who go for those exams and it brought me grave sadness and embarrassment to fail a test that sixteen year olds regularly managed to pass. I worked on my skills and tried again a few weeks later, but as I approached the dreaded parallel parking spot I went into a state of abject terror. I felt as though I was going to burst into tears as my heart pounded so fast that I was certain that it might tear a hole in my chest. I made one feeble attempt to align the car so that I might successfully ease into the parking spot between the cones but I could tell that I was going to hit those dastardly orange objects once again. I silently wondered if I would end up being fifty years old before I finally secured a license, as I admitted to the officer that I didn’t think I would ever succeed in parking that way. I expected him to fail me again, but instead he asked me if I ever had occasion to parallel park. When I insisted that I was a suburban gal whose only parking experiences would be on big flat lots he said that he would give me a passing grade in spite of my failure to complete the one feature of the test that so daunted me.  Since I never hit the cones he felt that I had at least shown that I was aware of the damage that I would have inflicted had I continued, but he also begged me not to try the skill in a real life situation.

To this very day I have never once had to parallel park. I suppose I’m lucky that I don’t live in a place like Chicago where that skill is a must. Instead I have long enjoyed the luxury of zipping in and out of my garage or parking on a nice wide driveway. It was only when faced with navigating a large vehicle from an angle that was unfamiliar to me that my skill at driving began to waver. Now I find myself feeling that same stressful uncertainty each time I attempt to maneuver the truck into the garage. I suppose I won’t be trying to finally parallel park anytime soon.

The Best Medicine

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It’s easy to lose perspective of what is most important during the holiday season and why we even celebrate it. I suppose that’s why I keep harking back to the funeral of former President George H.W. Bush. There were many lessons in the days of celebrating his life, and one of the most touching for me was the character of his friendships. He was a man who seemed to bring out the very best values in the people closest to him, things like loyalty, humility and fun. I was particularly taken by the eulogies of James Baker and Alan Simpson, longtime work associates and devoted pals who knew President Bush so well that they had long ago eschewed formalities with him.

Alan Simpson delivered a humorous monologue about his relationship with President Bush that spoke to the fun times that the two had shared. It lightened the somber mood and brought laughter into the gathering, something that had obviously appealed to the playful nature of President Bush and served to balance the seriousness of his life’s work. Senator Simpson made me smile as I imagined the two buddies guffawing like a couple of school boys even as they shouldered the weight of the world’s problems. There is something quite intimate about good friends sharing jokes and inside stories that bring merriment. Laughter is one of our most essential human traits as long as it is not tinged with hurtful barbs. It not only heals our souls, but has also been known to assist in making our bodies feel better as well.

I’ve been a fan of Alan Simpson for some time mostly because he reminds me of my husband Mike. Both men manage to find humor wherever they go, and in my own life Mike keeps me laughing even when events threaten to take me down. The two of us not only exchange daily hugs and expressions of love, but rarely allow a day to pass without a hardy guffaw that rumbles from the depths of our bellies. It surely makes things better and keeps our minds young.

It does not surprise me that Mike and Alan Simpson are actually distant relatives joined in their family trees by Burnetts. The mother whom Alan Simpson so lovingly spoke of in his eulogy was a Burnett, and the common ancestor that he and Mike share was a pioneer of Wyoming. The Burnetts are a hardy lot whether they lived in Wyoming or Texas, and I often tell my daughters and grandchildren that they bear the genes of some very tough individuals. Now I know that they also possess a tendency to enjoy a nonstop sense of humor as well.

I sometimes worry that our ability to poke fun at the world is taking a dark turn. Instead of finding delight in humorous situations we tend to focus on making fun of individuals. Jokes are too often used as darts to wound people. Bullies badger the weak with crudeness. The funniest men and women have a way of making us howl without ever purposely hurting or demeaning anyone. Carol Burnett was a genius at bringing such great joy to the world with the simple use of facial expressions and body language. Her show was a kind of curative hour for the nation when it aired each Saturday evening.

I grew up with comedy front and center in my home. I recall my father savoring jokes to relay to his us and to his friends. Evenings at the dinner table were laced with his wry deliveries of the funny things he had seen and heard at work. Our first television always seemed to be tuned to comedic programs featuring geniuses like Jackie Gleason and Red Skelton. While my Uncle Jack was a western man, my father was pure comedy right down to some of the books that were tucked in his library. I missed his humor when he was gone, and I suppose that it is not an accident at all that I eventually married a man with a similar bent toward outrageous laughter.

We’ve also become a bit Puritanical in our society when it comes to judging humor. So many topics have become taboo that it must be somewhat frightening for comedians to open their mouths. I imagine them being attacked from the right and the left for even a minor slip of the tongue. They have to be more careful than their predecessors which no doubt makes them rather nervous. The odds are rather good that even the most innocent of jokes might offend. We’ve become a rather censorious society in which the only free game seems to be President Trump, a rather easy and boring target because it is so overused.

We need laughter in our midst. Even as a teacher I found the comedians in my classes and instead of punishing them for their outbursts I gave them brief moments on the stage in the hopes that a bit of fun might diminish some of the anxiety that so many have toward mathematics. A bit of hilarity often broke down the emotional barriers that my students brought to class. I was always so grateful to the funny boys and girls who knew how to insert joy into the seriousness of my work. To this very day I appreciate people who have the ability to keep the world from sliding into a valley of moroseness. God bless the comics for they remind us that there is always light even when things seem darkest.