Ring! Ring!
Who could be calling at this hour?
Oh, right—this hour. Only one person would dare. My old buddy Stan, whose preferred time for a crisis is around 4:00 a.m.
“Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I forgot.”
“Okay, talk to you later.”
“No, wait—that’s just it. I was going to call you about something, but I forgot what it was.”
“Uh-huh. So you called anyway?”
“Exactly. I need to know—why am I forgetting things?”
Truth is, I’ve been wondering the same thing. Lately, I’ve been forgetting little details—a movie title, a book’s author, or the name of the person who just waved at me in the grocery store.
At least I usually know what I’m forgetting.
When it happens, I rack my brain, chasing the memory, but it stays just out of reach, taunting me. I give up, let it go—and then, wham, it hits me, and I feel like a fool.
As the years pile on, this seems to happen more often.
It’s annoying, sometimes even unsettling. So I share that with Stan.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It happens to everyone.”
“Maybe, but you’re retired. I’m still working—I can’t afford to lose my memory.”
“I hear you. Let’s test it,” I say. “Who’s on the fifty-dollar bill?”
“Ulysses S. Grant.”
“Nope.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s Alexander Hamilton.”
“You’re losing it. Grant’s on the fifty.”
“Bet you’re wrong. Got a fifty in your wallet?”
“Of course.”
“Check it.”
A moment later, Stan’s back, triumphant. “Told you—you’re losing it. I’m looking at a fifty, and Grant’s staring right at me.”
“Great,” I say, grinning to myself. “By the way, you called to tell me you forgot to pick up bagels for the township meeting this morning. Don’t worry—I knew you’d forget, so I grabbed them last night. And now that I know you’ve got a fifty in your wallet, you can pay me back, no problem.”
“Alright, alright, sorry I called.”
“Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, remember—there are some things I don’t forget.”
Almost Iowa 