Dredged

I was startled! I had been reading a Ruth Galloway Mystery in my comfy womfy chair when an incident in the narrative shocked me into a realization. The protagonist, Ruth, had just been given a poetry book by a suitor, and Oh My Goodness! had I not recently received a poetry book in the mail?

Yes, I had! The memory surfaced. I remembered clearly that Doris had sent me an email to notify me that her poetry book would be coming in the mail. I then recalled, perhaps less clearly but recalled nevertheless, removing her thin parcel from the mailbox. That was where my recollections terminated. I had no further remembrance beyond that.

I promptly forgot about the book without even opening it. What did I even do with it? A mild panic ensued. Did something happen to it? Did I still have it? Did the thin package get tossed somehow? That would cause me to feel very badly.

Immediately, I had to stop reading to find the answer. It was in the first place that I looked: a place where I normally stack my various bills until I am ready to deal with them. Phew! 

Because I had already known what was in the package, I had no pressing need at the time to explore the contents. Having something or other else on my mind right then, I put it in the pile and there it lay, out of sight and out of mind.

I emailed Doris immediately to acknowledge the gift and thank her for it, lest she think that I was a total ingrate. It hadn't been that long, for I had probably received the parcel just last week, but still, I should have acknowledged the gift promptly.

Just how long would the book have remained there in the pile if the incident in the novel hadn't activated my memory? Probably until month end which is when I tend to open accumulated mail: sometimes, not even then.

My mind is a busy place. It is not that I am thinking great thoughts, for they are mostly rubbish. But it is still busy in there with all sorts of flotsam and jetsam swirling about. It is not so much that I forget things in their entirety but that I require something to jog my memory and cause a certain item to be extricated from the swirling debris.

This happens frequently. Sue will associate something trivial with the memory of something else: an association that I wouldn't normally make. Once she reminds me of the connection, of course I remember (well, not always, but you know what I mean), but I had needed that specific reminder to exhume it from where it lay buried in my brain.

Minds and memory are funny things. I have met a few people in my life, sometimes almost just in passing, who have learned my name immediately upon meeting and have never seemed to forgotten it. My tire guy is one. I see him just twice a year in most years -- in autumn to install the snow tires, and in spring to remove them. Yet, he has always greeted me by name. After some years, I made it a point to try to remember his name. I think it is Paul. But I am not certain, even after making a special effort.

On the other hand, I recently took my phone in to have the battery replaced. The proprietor told me to come back in an hour to pick it up. When I did that, he just looked at me blankly, apparently having no clue who I was, not even by sight. While I have a poor memory for names, I am pretty good with facial recognition, but not this guy. After an elapsed time of just over an hour, I had been wiped from his memory banks and needed to supply my phone number for him to look up the work order on his computer.

I am pretty sure that memory is not a function of intelligence but the result of how different brains are constructed. In my case, the memories seem to be there but lay at great depths and require a special hook to dredge them back to the surface.

Now, what did I do with that poetry book?