The first thing that crossed my mind this fall when I’d forgotten both my wife’s birthday and our anniversary? After, that is, I’d identified the nearest hidey-hole in which to duck and cover ?

Obvious: come up with an excuse. And if there’s a silver lining in the dark cloud of COVID that’s hung over our heads going on forever, it’s how handy it is when you need an excuse. “Babe,” I began, “you know how all these days are when we can scarcely get out of the house. They just run together. Heavens, I can scarcely keep track of what day of the week it is without looking at my phone. I’m very sorry. How can I make it up?”

And I’m not pulling that one out of thin air. It’s just not the same “commuting” from our bedroom down the hall for another early Wednesday morning mens’ Bible study on-ugh!- Zoom. Rather than driving to church where there’s hot coffee and doughnuts (even if they’re the nasty King Soopers brand). And a room full of flesh and blood guys with their good natured chatter. And their real, sometimes messy lives.

After a while, all these house-bound, virtual days have the consistency of Jello pudding that’s been run through a Blend-O-Matic.

“You Need To Write Things Down!”

But even COVID eventually wears thin as an excuse. In fact, the tread on that one’s so far gone that it’s virtually bald. So, I’m hearing the above quite a bit from the wife, Marleen. Or this variation: “Have you put Lucy’s Christmas pageant on your calendar? Remember, I’m going to meet you at Mount Olive; I’m not going to be around to make sure you get you going. And give yourself plenty of time to get there.”

Annoying? Sure, but lamentably necessary.

Memory’s a funny thing. Especially as you get older. Like swiss cheese? “A firm, pale-yellow cheese having many holes.” Put aside the color and that pretty much sums it up.

A Twofer

But what’s “normal” for a guy who rounds the bend on age 70 in a matter of weeks? And, especially, for a guy who’s grey matter is afflicted with both bipolar disorder and normal pressure hydrocephalous? Not really sure. But it can’t be good.

Like just today. I was talking to Marleen about something or other as we sat at the kitchen counter eating lunch and watching our #1 ranked Gonzaga Bulldogs-GO ZAGS!-beat the Iowa State Hawkeyes in roundball. But, veering wildly off topic, for some reason she mentioned that she’d seen a fleeting image of what she thought was The Sweet Shop in a car commercial.

“The Sweet Shop?” I replied. “It couldn’t be. They’ve gone out of business. I drove by it not too long ago. All you could see through the windows was a bunch of junk.”

But that got me thinking: “How in the world was it that I’d driven by The Sweet Shop? Yeah, I can remember the magnificent, solo road trip I’d taken a year ago – or was it two?- to visit cousins up in Oregon and Idaho. And, true, I’d been on the west side of Berthoud Pass for that. But that couldn’t be it. Because on that trip I’d rented a car, crossed the Continental Divide on Trail Ridge Road and spent a night in Grand Lake before turning west on US 40 at Granby enroute to Jackson Hole, Yellow Stone, and Pendleton. Before looping back through Boise where I’d flown back to Denver. I was miles away from going through Empire. How in the world had I seen the poor old Sweet Shop?”

A Figment Of My Imagination?

It was only after considerable mental gymnastics that I realized that, no, I wasn’t hallucinating. And that, indeed, I’d gone over Berthoud Pass, driven through the tiny burg of Empire and had actually seen the rundown old hulk of a building that used to house the Sweet Shop. It was when the kids had rented a house outside Grand Lake this last summer for their vacation. I’d driven up from Denver for a quick day visit with the gang, including Byron who’d come in from Omaha.

I heaved a sigh of relief: the wolves of dementia were still at bay.

But I was distressed to think that the Sweet Shop was no more for this world. When I was in high school, it was a much anticipated highlight after a day of skiing at Winter Park to pull over in Empire for one of their banana milk shakes. They were so thick and loaded with chunks of banana that it was impossible to drink them through a straw; you had to use a spoon. So, just for old time sake, I googled “sweet shop;” you never know what might pop up on the internet.

And what to my wondering eyes appeared? The ” Lewis Sweet Shop” website! But how’d I miss the store? I know that I’d seen junk piled to the rafters rather than the taffy pulling machine that used to tempt passing motorists through the big picture window out front.

Who Ya’ Gonna Call? The Sweet Shop!

And that’s what I did. It was even a Denver area code-what’d I have to lose?

The lady who answered was as nice as pie and visited with me like she had all the time in the world. “Yes,” she said, “we moved out of the old location because the rent was too high and the landlord wouldn’t give us a break. So we we’re across the street now.”

Oh! The old switcheroo. No wonder I’d missed the new store:

“Made you look, you dirty crook, you stole your mother’s pocket book,
Took a dime and bought some wine, and now you look like Frankenstein!”

“We’re the third family that’s owned the store,” she continued. “It’s been in business since 1948.”

1948! That’s three years before this old man was even born.

So, I guess it’s not quite time to pack in the old brain. And who knows? Maybe next year I’ll actually be able to remember Marleen’s birthday. And our anniversary. But I’m not betting the farm on it.