RIVER CITY JOURNAL: WHEN YOU HAVE NO CLUE, NEVER TRY TO GUESS A STRANGER'S NAME

Just about every name I was ever supposed to remember was apparently written in my memory with indelible ink.

When it comes to remembering names, my brain is an EtchASketch.

If you tell me your name, I think it's printed forever in my mind's directory of names. But when I check the directory later, it looks like someone turned me upside down and shook me.

Maybe this has happened to you too.

When I left Kelo Valley to go to college way back when, I never dreamed I would spend most of my adult life living far away from the surroundings and people I knew so well. Sure, I came back for visits, but those occasions were spent with immediate family.

Over the years, my mother would say something like: You remember Donna So-and-So? I rarely did, but many of the names sounded like I should have remembered, so I usually would nod like I had a clue. In time, I couldn't have picked Donna So-and-so out of a pair of Presbyterians in a mosque.

One of the things that has been most remarkable about moving to Cape Girardeau, which is not all that far, really, from Kelo Valley, is how many people from my grade-school and high-school days are here. On top of that, it turns out I'm related in one way or another to a whole gob of people in Cape Girardeau. It has been fun connecting all the family lines, but it also has meant trying to remember a lot of names I really ought to remember.

Alas, I'm just not good at recalling stuff.

I was in one of Cape's biggest home-improvement centers not too long ago. I spend a lot of time there. When you own a house built about the time I was in the eighth grade, you need to make a lot of little upgrades in your surroundings. I wish I had bought stock in this home-improvement company the same time we bought the house.

On this particular occasion, I was looking for a stopper to go in the kitchen sink on the side where the garbage disposer is. We had the old stopper, but it didn't do much stopping. You could run water in that side of the sink until you were blue in the face, and it would run out just about as fast. For more than two years my wife had been pointing out that this was a waste of water. So, naturally, I went to the home-improvement store right away.

Or the first time I remembered, whichever came first.

Anyway, I was walking down one of the main aisles trying to read the signs that would lead me straight to what I needed.

First off, I don't think there's a sign that says Hey! Joe! Here's the Aisle for Kitchen Sink Stoppers for the Garbage Disposer Side of the Sink.

At least I didn't see it.

So I was concentrating. Real hard.

I thought I heard someone call my name, but when I looked around I didn't see anyone I recognized.

So I kept on walking and looking.

Just about the time I spotted a sign that said Kitchen/Plumbing which to me was a good sign that I was getting close to somewhere I heard my name called out again.

I looked around again. Nope. Must be hearing things.

Finally, there was a third shout. This time when I looked around, there was a man who looked like he was headed my way, so I stopped.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?"

Now there's a sure-fire way to make me forget a name, even if I could remember it.

I've learned, in my white-haired years, to accept my name-remembering shortcomings and come clean.

"I sure don't," I replied.

By this time, the man's wife had joined him. They both had friendly smiles, so I guessed they weren't going to complain about some of the dumb stuff I write.

"I'm Harold Ward," the man said.

Some folks say that if you're about to die, your entire life flashes through your mind. In my case, if someone I haven't seen for 40 years tells me his name, it's like 40 years compressed into a nanosecond, which, I believe, is a very short time.

Harold and his brother, George, were in high school with me. I may be wrong, since I forget a bunch of things anyway, but I don't think I had seen any of the Wards for about 40 years.

But as soon as he said his name, I recognized him.

Funny how that works.

We chatted for awhile and then set off looking for whatever it was we were looking for.

See. I've forgotten.

A number of years ago, when we were living in Maryville, Mo., a speaker gave a good talk at a Rotary club meeting about mnemonics, which, if my memory cells aren't acting up, has to do with ways to remember things.

The only thing I remember from that talk was how to remember the name of one of the Rotarians. The speaker said he would always remember the name this way: A man sitting on a toilet skiing down a mountain. The Rotarian's name was John Symanski, who owned a very nice flower shop.

I've never forgotten John Symanski's name. I have no idea who the speaker was.

As things stand now, I am doomed to go to my grave remembering one name: the fellow on the skiing toilet.

That's not saying a lot for mnemonics, is it.

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