Memory is full – time to delete
Just as the phone began to ring, panic set in. My mind raced as I tried to remember who I was calling. Thankfully I recognized the voice on the other end, and it came back to me.
What would I have done if I hadn't regained the memory of the moment? Would I say something like "who is this and what do I want?"
I pulled up to a stoplight and noticed the woman in front of me had left her purse on the trunk of her car. A couple of years ago that might have been funny, but now I can only sympathize, honk the horn and let her know it's back there. That's the reason middle-aged women's purses are so large. Besides the fact we have everything you might need in an emergency: Band-Aids, Kleenex, and a flashlight. Kind of like that game show "Let's Make A Deal," where Monty Hall would pay money for items a woman would have in her purse.
After struggling to cut vines off the fence, the hubby finally conceded to let me use his fancy, sharp-enough-to-cut-a-penny scissors to get the job done. These scissors are reserved for special cutting occasions – from wires to fish tails. It wasn't until two days later, when he began to look for his scissors, I remembered I had laid them on the hood of the car while taking a break. I offered him my sewing scissors to replace his, but apparently cutting thread and cutting wire don't really compare.
I don't take a lot of medication, but after a recent episode of double dosing myself I am beginning to think the plastic daily pill box isn't such a bad idea since I can't seem to remember whether or not I have taken them.
Dad blamed his memory loss on brain overload. He’d say he's learned so much in his life some things have to be let go to make room for new information. Scary as it seems, it's beginning to make sense to me.
With so many years of memories, good or bad, you really can't keep them all. It's like they are filed way back in the cabinet and won't come out again until something prompts them to the front of your memory bank.
The scent of a cherry cigar reminds me of Grandpa, leisurely sitting back in his recliner, puffing on a cigar while trying to teach me the ways of the world. And then there are those sounds and smells that bring on a feeling of being secure and comforted, and even though I may hear or smell them often I'm always reminded of how good it is to be home. The smell of freshly cut grass, a slow-cooking pot of new potatoes, green beans and onions. Hearing the sounds of crickets, tree frogs, attic fans and the baseball game on TV.
When I got my flu shot the nurse asked me which arm. I said the left but offered up the right.
It may be time to reboot.
Sandy Turner lives in Independence. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.