We older folk are often portrayed as confused by the present, mumbling over something from the past that bears no relevance to what is being discussed. This can often be true, but not because we are slowly losing our minds as is assumed. It has to do with memory.
Years ago when my husband was in Vietnam, I would go with my brand new baby to my widowed grandfather’s house once a week to cook dinner for him, and catch up with a much beloved relative. He was intrigued by the baby girl, and always made it part of his nightly ritual, after his bowl of ice cream, to check on the baby asleep her in crib. He would report back to me that she was resting peacefully sometimes calling her by her name, but just as often calling her by my name or my mother’s name. It was not because he was forgetful, as he was not, but because memory got in the way. He had had a little girl, who in turn had produced another little girl, me, who had added another little girl now resting in his house. The memory of all those babies just blended together. It was a kaleidoscope of tiny girls that mingled together into one whole, memory and current facts blending together.
I find I too am sometimes over whelmed by memory which can be jogged by a picture, or a smell, or a visit to a place from long ago. Recently, I had occasion to attend an event at the Army and Navy Club in downtown Washington, D.C. This is a lovely old building that faces Farragut Square whose membership is open to all military officers. My grandfather was a member of the club back in the fifties when women had to enter by a side door designated the Women and Tradesmen entrance. Once inside, the library, one of the oldest private libraries in the District, was further denied to females. One of my male cousins reported that it was boringly filled with old men napping in leather chairs with newspapers in their laps. All during the event which had drawn me to the club, and the delicious dinner that followed, I was inundated by memories of my tall, dignified grandfather in his coat and tie entertaining his family to dinner on one of his annual trips to Washington. I felt that I was fully in the present at the lecture and dinner, but how would I know? Did I sometimes look distracted and distant during the course of the evening? Did I mumble and lose the thread of the conversation? To be frank, I really do not care. I was content with the evening as it was, memories and all. I had not lost my mind, but found a treasure trove of memories in there.