Memories Are Not Made of This! by Helen Chappell Dear Anne ~ I’m sorry this column is so late. I forgot I had a deadline. Then I had an idea, and I promptly forgot that. My memory is only as good as identifying all the films Claude Rains was in. Where that book is or whether or not I took my meds this morning, well, those memories are gone with the wind. (1939, Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable, written by Margaret Mitchell and out of fashion for being dated and embarrassing.) I don’t know why I can recall the vaguest pieces of trivia, but even though I checked my balance a couple of hours ago, I couldn’t tell you for the life of me how much is in that account. Hold on, I’ll have to look it up again. Oops, wrong password. Thought I updated that. Oh, no, the company updated it and I forgot. Let me just keep putting in my old password over and over again and hope for a different result. Now, I do recall that was Einstein’s definition of insanity, but I had to think long and hard about what my new password is. By the time I get it changed back to my original password, I’ll
have forgotten both of them. But I can tell you that hamburger is on sale in two different groceries. I’ve always been a classic absentminded professor without the academic credits, but alas, with aging, it’s getting worse. 11
