Memory

Summer is my busy time. This means that I end up writing about one article every month, if I'm lucky, as opposed to my usual two or three a week in the winter months. It's not that I can't think of anything to write; quite the contrary. There is a lot to write about. It's just that by the time I get home, unpack the car and get a bit of food or water in me, I'm completely exhausted. I've wholly forgotten all the ideas that flit through my mind during the day. Gone. Pfft. Even if I write them down in my notebook, I still can't remember to think about that notebook when I arrive home.

But writing isn't the only thing that suffers from my lack of memory at this time of year.

Of course, there is the usual parenting issue of calling the child by the pets names, or forgetting where I put the keys. There are the odds and ends that end up oddly in the freezer for no explicable reason. And there are the countless times I end up remarkably dog-like, walking into a room and having no clue why I went in there in the first place.

Memory is one of the major casualties in the summer.

Of course, it's not just me.

Yesterday, at the market, one of my neighbours came up to me and asked me if I had an extra table cloth. It seemed that somehow he had left his at home. Of course, it just so happened that another neighbour had picked up a brand new table covering for me just the week before, so yes, I did happen to have an extra one.

That was an unusual request, to be sure, but not, by far, the only one.

Over the years I have left at home things like my change float (which is the stack of small bills that I use to give change to people throughout the day), my credit card machine, various boxes of stock, all my mannequins, and even my pliers. Oh yes, even the Mobius Balls have suffered this indignant fate.

My various neighbours at the market also suffer this aestas careo memoria.

There have been many days when a friend leaves a pile of boxes at their booth site only to run back home to get some essential thing. I've seen people try to set up their booth, having left their tents, tables, or various display items at home. One of my favorites are the times when someone has set up their tent, hung all their items from it, placed all of their stock ever so carefully where it all belongs, and then discover that they forgot to put their banner on said tent. It is quite amusing watching as they try to find various ways to hang their banners without lowering their tent. Being taller than most there, I offer to help, but it's still fun to watch.

The best of all, though, was my own sad story. There was one time that I got in the car and headed out to work, bright and early, ready to face the morning traffic into downtown. It was sunny and there were some good tunes on the radio. It was looking to be a great day. The temperature was just right for that wee hour, signaling weather that would be perfect, neither too swelteringly hot nor too cool for comfort, with just a gentle hint of a breeze for good measure. I made it downtown without too much difficulty, a little bit of traffic, a few minor snarls. I got caught behind an ancient bicyclist on the bridge, and had to wait for this seemingly one-legged arthritic tortoise to get across, not being allowed to pass cyclists on that particular bridge. Then there was the garbage truck in the alley, so I had to wait for them, too. Of course, these guys were particularly virtuous, striving to demonstrate excellence in a job well-done. They took extra care to ensure that the garbage was placed ever so carefully in the back of the truck, and even more care to place the bins back exactly where they had been. They were something like world champions of the OCD refuse collection olympics. Finally, I was able to pull in, and back up to the place where I unload. With my daily sigh of relief at getting there intact and in a somewhat timely manner, I got out of the car, walked around to the back, and popped the trunk.

Only to discover that I hadn't loaded it before leaving home.