When synapses fail, our brains are like pieces from different puzzles mixed together. The individual bits are difficult to connect.
The stress of our last move numbed our brains before the first box was loaded into the truck.
I got to the new condo and took one set of keys, and gave my husband the other. A couple of car loads later we couldn't find either set in pants or jacket pockets. Every flat surface was a jumble with no keys in sight. Going back over our steps didn't help-there were too many. Hours later we found one keychain on the porch in a box with a few hangers. The other one "appeared" in my purse, when I finally thought to search there.
The next day Bill readied for a trip to the bank to deposit the checks from the closing. I'd put them some place "safe" that I could get to easily. But surrounded by furniture in unfamiliar places and empty drawers I couldn't remember where the safe place was. Stomach drop. Heart palpitations. Hand wringing. Arrow prayer, "Where?" Then I thought, look in the check book. Bingo. Checks belong in a check book.
Bull says our guardian angels are working overtime this decade. Next decade, they'll need to double the staff.
We find life in general takes concentrated effort of both of us. Formerly my house-painter husband could change blades in his utility knife while juggling paint brushes and rollers. But on a recent morning, he struggled unsuccessfully to get all of the parts to fit back together. After fifteen frustrating minutes I turned to YouTube. Our problem-solving may have turned to mush, but we could imitate the man in the video.
A little later, we had to change the vacuum bag and filter. What came out wouldn't fit back in. Back to YouTube.
The photo for our Christmas card is another example. I'd wanted an updated photo since the last one taken four years ago. Our oldest grandson brought his camera and tripod to the mountain house we enjoyed for Thanksgiving. He put newly-learned skills to work to choose the by-the-creek setting with the right light and ambiance.
We didn't think ahead to have color-coordinated clothes, although my middle grandchild purchased a new shirt for the event. The neutral blues and grey worked fine. Still, the great photo made Bill and I groan. If we'd had a plan, or looked in a mirror, he wouldn't have looked like a blow-up lawn decoration, and I wouldn't have resembled a two-toned orange popsicle.
While some synapses create strong connections over longer periods of time, others can weaken. Apparently some of our old synapses of mechanical and spatial events are not the stronger kind.
I hope scientists somewhere are working on this problem. In the meantime, there are always clap-for-your-key devices and YouTube.
Because Bill captured the squirrel king and banished him, we get to enjoy the grapes this year.
So I take a grape break every time I'm in the yard. I stand at the bush and pick just one at a time, the fattest, south facing ones, because they've soaked up the most sun. The skin is dusky, the flesh golden.
It's warm in my mouth. I savor the smell and intense flavor.
They're old fashioned Concords, with big seeds and tough, bitter skin. So I have to concentrate while eating them, straining the sweet pulp through my teeth, spitting out what's not edible.
The first bite transported me more than half a century to southern Missouri.
As children, my sister and I spent a week with my great Uncle Elmer and Aunt Jesse. He was a tall thin man. It seemed to me he never changed his clothes, although the short sleeve button-down shirt was always sharply pressed, with a cigar sticking out of the pocket. The brown trousers had one knife pleat and were cinched with a brown leather belt. Whenever he walked out the door, he grabbed his woven straw fedora hat.
When my great aunt got tired of us, she sent us outside with Elmer. He took us to the garden. We picked a few beans, tucked a couple of tomatoes into the sack we made with the hems of our blouses. The concord grape arbor was my favorite spot, because the vines grew up and over the grassy walk. The clusters hung down, but too high for us, so Uncle Elmer would reach up and cut off a bunch with his pocket knife.
The current grapes bring twice the pleasure because of the memory.
What produce from summer whisks you away to another time and place?
I just returned from a trip down memory lane.
I revisited Whidbey Island where I lived briefly in 1968. I was pleased to see that most of the changes were for the better.
The waterfront town of Langley is lively and lovely. We enjoyed a rooftop lunch and did a little shopping.
The old wooden-floor grocery has been remodeled, upscaled, and expanded.
While walking around town I remembered the milestone that took place there. Twice, not just once, I flunked the road portion of my test for a driver's license.
 |
| as it looks today |
While parallel parking in front of the Star Store, I miraculously managed to get into a space. But when I needed to leave the spot I bumped the car behind me: immediate end of test, and no license.
The second time, I was driving my dad's old green Chevy truck with the transmission on the steering column. Going up this hill in second instead of first gear I stalled. Stopping dead in (potential) traffic forced the examiner to frown, fret, and flunk me.
Oh well, there wasn't anywhere on Whidbey I wanted to go back then anyway. And I wouldn't need (and couldn't have) a car when I went to college that fall.
In the intervening forty-six years I eventually earned a driver's license, and Langley transformed itself into a charming village. Some things improve with time!
The photo for our Christmas card is another example. I'd wanted an updated photo since the last one taken four years ago. Our oldest grandson brought his camera and tripod to the mountain house we enjoyed for Thanksgiving. He put newly-learned skills to work to choose the by-the-creek setting with the right light and ambiance. 
