When fiction is stranger than truth | News, Sports, Jobs – The Adirondack Daily Enterprise

Im always confounded by the things I remember, versus the things I forget.

I shop for groceries several times a week. To be honest, its more a sightseeing tour than a major resupply venture, plus in these plague-bestirring days, it also passes for my social life. And because on each trip I buy only a few things, and I take great pride in my memory (perhaps too much pride), I never write a list. Uh-uh, not me Im more clever than that.

So if, for example, Im buying eight things, I make up a mnemonic. Say Im getting lettuce, sour cream, butter, orange juice, onions, crackers, light bulbs and kale. How to remember? Simple, I arrange the first letters of each word into a word, in this case, Bollocks.

Or if I need Edam cheese, yellow bell pepper, aspirin, tea and noodles, the word is Yenta.

And once I have the word, on the way to the store I repeat what each letter represents, kinda like a shoppers rosary, so when I get there, each item is etched in my mind.

Of course, since Im not fluent in Welsh, if my shopping list doesnt have enough items starting with a vowel, I cant make up a word. In that case, bright boy that I am, I just put the letters in an arbitrary arrangement, which if you think about it, is no arrangement at all.

So if I need spaghetti sauce, dog food, cat food, detergent and pepper, even though I mumble SDCDP to myself from my house to the store (and even in the store, earning some curious stares from fellow shoppers), while Ill remember the letters, Ill inevitably forget what one of them represents. And then, hubris being what it is, Ill force myself to fill in the blanks. For instance, if I forgot P stood for pepper, Id come up with another P item, maybe paper towels. When I get home and find Ive already got six rolls of paper towels, Ill feel a tad foolish for a while. But after I convince myself how vital paper towels are and everyone should have at least 14 rolls in their digs, Im fine with it.

Then theres the issue with my keys and eyeglasses. Obviously, I cant function without either, so I need to know where they always are, right? Of course. So with my glasses, when I take them off, I make sure to put them back in the case. And I put both the keys and my glasses in the same place, next to my telephone always. Until the times I somehow space it out. And then Im as lost as the treasure of Edward Teach.

And its not like misplacing my telephone handset, when all I have to do to retrieve it is push a button and follow that annoying beep. Instead, I can only retrace my steps precisely or more exactly, try to retrace them. Which is near impossible, because if I really could retrace them, Id find what I was looking for in a flash. Instead, Im doomed to stumble around, looking here, looking there between couch cushions, on the car floor, on the bannister, maybe in a jacket pocket, maybe on a bookshelf, or for all I know, in the fridge, behind the mayo.

And as much as Id like to say Ive always found them, I havent. And Ill thank you in advance if the next time you see me, you do not ask if I have any idea where I left them.

Minutiae

But theres wonderful irony with my memory, namely while I can lose my keys and glasses and have no idea whats that one item I need at the store, there are other things I simply cant forget. And, like the things I lose, theres no pattern how or why I remember them.

My phone rings, its my childhood pal Peter MacIntyre calling from The Land of the Lotus Eaters, Myrtle Beach. Peter often calls just to shoot the breeze, but hell also call with a specific purpose, and its always the same one to fill in some miniscule gap in his memory.

Bobby, hell say, what was the name of that kid who lived on Helen Hill, or maybe it was River Street, who always swallowed his bubble gum cause he thought itd absorb all the germs in his stomach? The family moved away when we were in fifth grade, and he had a weird nickname.

Oh yeah, Ill say. That was Teddy Gilroy. His nickname was Crankcase, and Ive no idea how he got it.

Or Petell want to know what year Don McNeil was the king of Winter Carnival, the number of Laurie Williams Cub Scout pack, or how much an ice cream soda cost at Meyers lunch counter (25 cents, lest you wonder).

But whatever he asks me you can count on two things: One, its about as obscure as it gets. And two, Ill know the answer, even though theres no reason why I should.

And then theres another odd quirk about my memory. It is the things I should forget, but dont. At the top of that list is stuff I learned in grade school history lessons that was presented as gospel but is pure bumpf. The two that immediately spring to mind are of a patriotic motif, or at least are supposed to be.

A sea story

The first is the sad tale of Philip Nolan. I doubt any teacher today lays that fable on his charges (or at least I hope none does), but it was the sine qua non of fourth or fifth grade when I was a wee poppet. Peeps my age may not remember him by name, but Im sure every one of us remember him by his real title The Man Without a Country.

Philip Nolan was an army officer accused of treason, and at his trial he yelled something to the effect of, Damn the United States! I hope never to hear its name spoken again. The judge sentenced him with the finest Solomonic reasoning (and with callous disregard to the Eighth Amendment), to spend the rest of his life at sea, literally: He was confined to Navy ships on the high seas, going from one to another, and not only would he never see our shores again, all the crews were instructed not to utter United States in his presence.

This obviously was meant to keep all us potential commies in the Petrova School of 1955 in line (and in line at the induction center, I suppose). And the point was driven home by the storys end, which was a real kicker. After old Phil finally shuffled off this mortal coil and his remains were dropped into the briny deep, the crew discovered hed made his own little American flag and had hidden it under his mattress.

I doubt there could be a more powerful object lesson for little kids thinking of defecting, especially since we were told it was historical fact. As I said, it was total BS something I probably never learned till I was out of high school.

Honesty is the best policy?

The other tale told to us by schoolmarms who no doubt believed it themselves was George Washington and the cherry tree. According to this one, when he was a little boy, Washington chopped down his fathers cherry tree. When confronted by his father, little Geo said, I cant tell a lie, Pa; you know I cant tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet. And because he told the truth, Washingtons father didnt punish him.

This, like The Man Without A Country, is also utter fabrication, written in an early biography of Washington. The author was a fabulist named Parson Weems, who was basically as full of crap as a Christmas goose. No matter, his tale of George and the cherry tree was given to us as historical fact, and we believed it, though I think I quit believing it fairly early in the game especially when I saw what happened to me and my peers when we confessed our rascalities.

But the tale had widespread credence, even being repeated as far away as Asia, as told to me by Sam Grimone, who swears its true.

A Chinese father assembled his three sons and calmly asked them, Who tipped the outhouse into the Yangtze River?

Not I, said the first son.

Not I, said the second son.

Not I, said the third son.

Now, said the father, let me tell you a relevant story. A great man, George Washington, when a young boy, chopped down his fathers cherry tree. When the father asked who did it, little George said he could not tell a lie, it was him. And because he was honest about it, his father spared him any punishment. Now I ask again, who tipped the outhouse into the Yangtze River?

Not I, said the first son.

Not I, said the second son.

I cannot tell a lie, said the third son. I did it.

His father then took off his belt and whipped the bejammers out of the kid.

Between heaving sobs, the kid said to the father, I dont understand. When little George confessed to chopping down the cherry tree, his father didnt punish him because he was honest. But when I admitted I tipped the outhouse into the Yangtze River, you still punished me. Why?

Because, said the father, at the time George Washington chopped down the cherry tree, his father was not in it.

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When fiction is stranger than truth | News, Sports, Jobs - The Adirondack Daily Enterprise