While easing into life's mid-winter, it's become obvious that there are certain realities of life that by-pass other age groups, which can't be totally ignored by ours. Let's take the daily observance of lunch, for example. The sandwich, a handful of chips, and a low-cal gatorade are this writer's standard bill-of-fare. This dining experience invariably plays out to the accompaniment of the noon tv news. Therein lies the rub.
Marketers choose that time to launch their colon, catheter, and feminine hygiene commercials. Why do they subject the viewing public to this kind of insidious torment? It's because: 1) they know they can; that renaissance geezers, such as this writer, are creatures of habit, holding fast to the notion that twelve chimes signifies chow time. Twenty-seven years of teaching in the classroom helped to reinforce that behavior. 2) We fit the demographic for the products these fiends are trying to sell. That leaves the seasoned-citizen-diner with the alternatives of either banging repeatedly on the remote control mute button, or else, staring at a ham and cheese on rye that looks less and less appealing with every passing "pitch".
Next, the following senior-scenario is inevitably played out: In an airport, or a sidewalk in town, or a hallway in a building, the call rings out from behind you...."Hey, Hal!", or "Hey, Mr. R.!", or "Hey, Coach!" All of the foregoing are most often suffixed by, "Do you remember me?" Of course I/we do! Everything, that is, except for one minor detail, their name.
What ensues is a dialogue, immersed in a frantic, yet hopefully furtive ("frantive"?) search for the nearest mens' room, or the nearest broom closet, or any safe haven that would provide refuge from the one holding the name-hammer over your head.
However....a restroom or closet isn't always that accessible, especially when one finds oneself out on a hiking trail, miles from either, while completing one's two-mile morning constitutional. Ultimately, as it becomes obvious with every passing exchange, one must say to that fellow hiker, "I'm sorry, could you give me your name again, please?" (Thank heaven you remember that she is a cross-country airline flight attendant, for which she appreciates your "powers of recollection".)
"Of course", she says, "It's Diana. You remember you'd given me the title of Lady Di for future reference?!" The Lady Di had unwittingly skewered this wintry acquaintance of hers, and made irrelevant all kinds of accolades and kudos that powers of recollection had granted him before.
All of which bring us to the gift(?) of digitized memory retrieval, also known as the "Flash Drive". Depending on the price you are willing to pay, these devices can store data from the capacity of a generously-sized biography (footnotes, family tree and illustrations, included) to the Complete Works of Plato, Gray's Anatomy, Tollstoy's "War and Peace", the New York City telphone directory, and for good measure, the full, unedited film version of "Gone With the Wind".
They are very handy, USB plug-in tools, and known affectionately by some as "thumb drives" given that they are scarcely the size of an adult thumb. But their size, meaning critically, their portability, can also be their liability...if placed in the wrong hands, such as those belonging to a forgetful septuagenarian.
Our little "beastie" travelled with us this year, down the spine of Sweden, from Stockholm to Malmo. From there, across the fjords of Norway, the canals of Belgium, and the streets of Paris. Not only that, it was a constant companion on flights to and from ports-of-call. It was a safety net for daily journal entries of our travels, along with a huge hunk of gigabyte for digital photos. So tight was our bond, that it came close to receiving a nickname normally reserved for house pets. "Ysidro" comes to mind.
Some time between our return and a fortnight later, the flash drive went "a.w.o.l.", as in "Absent without leave", a phrase generally associated with desertion in military circles. However, we acknowledge that this is misdirecting blame that is rightfully ours. "Ysidro" didn't desert moi. Moi deserted Ysidro.
To this day, the "Y-search" continues. The investigation (read that "obsession") falls something short of magnificent. Our house, and all manner of possessions have been repeatedly given an examination befitting TSA airport security; all to no avail. IN the interim, there have been a host of rationalizations that have been conjured to soothe the wounds of this aging ego.
Albert Einstein would walk off to teach his physics classes at Princeton University without first slipping on his socks. On the other end of the age spectrum, grandsons have repeatedly lost jackets...even a tee-shirt with the prized nom d'plume of "HoneyBear". But all of this is small comfort to a guy who's wondering where all this absent-mindedness is leading.
The missing electronic companion retails for a mere $5.99. Everything on it is safely stowed on a laptop hard drive. Why then, oh why, is this "Y" allowed so much space on the backshelf of this writer's mind? It is another in a rash of itches that cannot be scratched, and shares the shelf with other little irritants.
For example, why is it increasingly difficult to grab a wink of sleep after five o'clock in the morning, and why do people mumble their words now, more than they ever did before? These queries come by tip-toe, unbidden, into the mind of a muse with far too much discretionary time.
Not to worry. Now that the answer to the ultimate question of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything has been found (our readership knows it as the number "5"), your scribe can at least partially devote his attention to the Hereafter, while posing yet another question: What am I here....after?
Kindly excuse me while I meditate..........
