Aperson’s memory is a strange phenomenon. I, for example, can remember the six-digit student ID number that I was issued upon arrival to the university in 1970, but can’t remember the six-letter password that my bank gave me to access my account… just last week. I can also remember the telephone number from when we first obtained that new-fangled contraption back in 1966, but have no idea what the number is for my wife’s or either of my son’s phones. Thankfully, they are simply programmed into my phone as Boss, Employee #1 and Employee #2. I can, however, be grateful I’m not afflicted with the memory problems of one of my neighbors.
Chris and Twyla live about three miles south of me and they’ve been married for 23 years. Chris has always enjoyed tinkering with and restoring old machines, whether they be cars, trucks or tractors. He takes great pride in doing the mechanical work the right way and, by all indications, appears to be very successful with the projects he has completed. For the past couple of years, he has been restoring an old, 1941 tractor and had finally gotten to the point where he needed to order the original decals in order to add the ‘finishing touch.’
Last week, on one of those cold and miserable days, when farmers conveniently find office work they need to catch up on, Chris sat at the dining room table with a notebook and phone, while his wife began to prepare supper in the warmth of their kitchen. “I think I’ll make some calls to try and find the right decals for that old tractor,” he commented. Twyla barely acknowledged as she continued with her cooking tasks.
Lo and behold, Chris’s first call got him in touch with a live, human voice that thought he had the exact decals that were needed. Excited that he could be this lucky, Chris waved his hands in order to get his wife’s attention and then put a finger to his lips, as if to request quietness. “You’ve got them in stock?” he asked.
The voice on the other end of the phone conversation was pretty sure that he possessed those coveted, original decals, but he could only be sure if Chris could come up with the serial number of that 1941 tractor. Without hesitation, or even digging through his notes for the magical number, my neighbor stated, “Sure, I know the serial number. It is 116210.” As he hung up the phone, Chris was ecstatic that he had found the treasure so easily, and while savoring his good fortune, it took my friend close to a minute to sense the icy stare coming from the kitchen.
“Really?” Twyla asked.
Dumbfounded, Chris answered, “What?”
“From memory, you can rattle off the serial number of a 1941 tractor, but you can’t remember our anniversary seven out of the past 10 years?”
Selective memory is the worst.
