Memory a gift to be treasured while it lasts
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- August 17, 2024
- 742
Q: When is a door not a door?
A: When it’s ajar.
I have no idea why that joke has remained safely stored away in my junkyard of a memory, especially when you consider the fact that, when asked, I am utterly unable to recall my phone number.
My wife, ever the helpful lifetime partner, created a strip of labeling I’ve attached to the back of my cell, thus creating an instant reference point, something I can rely upon in a pinch.
It gets a little cumbersome when, for example, I’m trying to order a pizza for home delivery. Because in order to provide that information, I have to lower the phone from my ear and flip it over so that I can relay it to the pizza person, who needs a little patience.
I could probably alleviate the staccato interruptions if I would just use the hands-free speaker phone option, but that’s a nonstarter, since there’s no way I’d be able to take that technological leap without jeopardizing the entire transaction, eliminating our supper.
And when you crave anchovies, that’s simply an unacceptable risk.
Here’s the kicker, though. I can still remember the phone number of the house I grew up in — AM7-2412 — all those years ago.
“Just remember ‘two dozen, one dozen,’” Mom said, probably saying a silent prayer that her first-born would never need to call it.
She was a lot like William Miller’s mother in “Almost Famous,” a role Frances McDormand rode all the way to an Oscar nomination in 2001. She played a college professor with a son who aspired to be a rock ‘n’ roll journalist, a potential career choice she despised, believing he should, instead, attend law school.
One of my favorite scenes involves a contentious phone conversation with Russell Hammond, the lead guitarist in a band William has been assigned to cover while they’re on the road.
It’s McDormand at her best, and I’ve always heard my mom in it:
“I know all about your Valhalla of decadence,” she says, each word fired like a dart aimed at his conscience. “He’s not ready for your world of compromised values and diminished brain cells that you throw away like confetti. Am I speaking to you clearly?”
All Russell Hammond can do is mutter, “Yes … yes, ma’am.”
“If you break his spirit, harm him in any way,” she continues, righteously, “you will meet the voice on the other end of this phone, and it will not be pretty. Do we understand each other?”
Again, a stunned Russell can only say, “Uh ... yes, ma’am.”
“Almost Famous” wouldn’t be the film that it is without Elaine Miller’s final bit of career advice to the fledgling rock star.
“Now go and do your best,” she says, softening her tone. “‘Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid.’ Goethe said that. It’s not too late for you to become a person of substance, Russell.”
It’s all so much like Mom, especially the part about brain cells and confetti. As the years go on, I’m more than a little aware that my memory is not what it once was … and it’s only going to get worse.
Experts say devoting a few hours a week to something challenging — like solving a New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle — can go a long way toward blunting the onset of dementia, and I’ve been doing that for years, so I’ve got that going for me.
But there are times when I know that I know something and am unable to bring it to the front of my mind, and it’s frustrating. For example, the other day I was talking baseball with an old friend, and I couldn’t remember the name of the Detroit pitcher who won three games in the 1968 World Series, a fact I’ve known forever.
Now it wasn’t the end of the world when it took me a minute or two to dredge up the name of Mickey Lolich, but it was worrisome.
My father, who remarried three years after Mom died, would sometimes talk about something similar happening to him.
I’d ask how he was doing when I stopped in for a visit before driving to the bowling alley for my Wednesday night league.
He’d say, “Feeling older. It takes some getting used to, not being able to remember something quickly. But don’t worry about me.”
Dad was about 70 when he said that, the age I’ll turn this winter.
That reminds me of another joke I heard when I was a kid.
Q: What did one firecracker say to the other?
A: My pop’s bigger than your pop.
And this one:
Q: What time is it at the dentist’s office?
A: It’s always tooth-hurty.
OK then, that’s enough brain exercise for the week. Excuse me while I try to remember the original members of the Byrds.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to find him on his Facebook, where sharp memories are a luxury to be celebrated.