RIVER CITY JOURNAL: NOW HOLD ON WHILE I TRY TO FINISH THIS THOUGHT...

* If you don't make it to the end, I'll understand. I almost didn't either.

I was running an errand when it hit me, a smack on the side of the head that left my ear stinging and the blood tingling in my cheek.

At first, I thought someone had thrown a wet beach ball through the window of my car.

Obviously, I wasn't literally running an errand. I was driving my car somewhere -- I don't remember where, which is the point of why I'm telling you this in the first place.

Anyway, as I was driving to wherever I was going, I was listening to Dick, the radio reader, the guy with the monotone voice on KRCU who reads whole novels to listeners throughout Southeast Missouri.

The books I hear being read on KRCU are usually interesting books. But you really have to want to listen. Otherwise, you couldn't endure 30 mionutes of the radio reader guy.

On this particular day, as I was driving myself to an unremembered destination, the radio reader was describing someone's -- I wasn't listening that closely, but I think it was the author's -- memories of an aging father who had Alzheimer's or some other debilitating memory loss. The father kept asking his patient wife the same questions over and over and over and over. The author didn't know how his mother could stand it, but she always answered every question as kindly and gently as possible. The author expressed tremendous respect for his mother's handling of this awful situation.

I was struck by the ability of humans to behave in ways that are loving and thoughtful even though certain observers -- in this case, a husband who couldn't remember what he said 30 seconds ago -- would barely comprehend such acts of kindness.

Or would they?

It seemed the point the author was trying to make, if I heard the radio reader guy correctly, was that some people will go to any lengths to show their love simply because loving is a virtue that needs no audience, no recognition, no applause, no trophy. That's what the author so admired about his mother.

It was just as I was developing that thought and mulling it over in my own mind that I got whomped.

What struck me was no wet beach ball.

What hit me was the realization that I have -- and, I suppose, all of us have to some degree or another -- moments when we are like the memory-deficient father. In other words, we all forget stuff.

In my case, I forget a lot of stuff.

I forgot. I've probably told you that a hundred times now.

Recently, I've noticed a particular type of forgetting.

I remember a lot of first names, but I can't seem to focus on the last names that go with those first names.

Do you ever do that?

My father-in-law had this problem too, but he had a special way of handling the problem. He called everyone Jack. Me, his grandsons, his sons and just about any other fellow who came within conversational distance.

He didn't call women or girls Jack. But, then, he didn't have a lot to say around women and girls. He was, like most men of his era, far more comfortable talking to men and boys -- all those Jacks.

My problem is that calling every Jack isn't good enough. Hizzoner the mayor, for example, probably wouldn't like to be called Jack.

But that's OK. I can remember Al. And Bob. And Sam. And Mark and Marc. And Sandy and Laura and all the rest.

But there are some first names that seem to have disconnected from last names.

At lunch yesterday, I was telling Marc about the fellow who preceded Pat Danner in the 6th District congressional seat that represents much of Northwest Missouri.

Tom, I said.

But I couldn't think of Tom's last name to save my soul.

I went to college with Tom. We studied had the same French class and worked on translations in my dorm room. He found a copy of "Fanny Hill" in a French version somewhere, and our translating skills improved remarkably, although we both barely managed to make it through the class.

Tom went to law school and into politics. He visited his home district frequently and always stopped by to say hello and to find out what was going on in my neck of the woods.

But yesterday I couldn't remember Tom's last name.

By 5 p.m., my brain hurt from trying to remember. Thank goodness, Marc was able to use a little deductive reasoning and a few back issues of the Missouri Official Manual to find Tom's last name.

Coleman.

Of course! Coleman. It was on the tip of my tongue all the time (even though I kept thinking it started with a T, but I was probably thinking of Tom Throne, who is someone entirely different than Tom Coleman).

There you are. I can't remember last names. Probably not even yours.

Here's the good news: I remembered to write this column.

For the first time in many weeks, Andrea what's-her-name didn't have to remind me.

Dick Estell. That's the radio reader's name.

I'm thankful for little things.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.