Impaired Memory
By Lee Pitts
When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or not. Now that I’m a senior citizen I can’t remember things I didn’t know I’d forgotten. As a writer I often have ideas for a column and in the past they were etched into my photographic memory and I could remember them days later, but now if I don’t write them down immediately the film never gets developed. I don’t even have the memory of a goldfish which is three seconds. I’m so concerned about my memory loss that I made an appointment to talk about it with my doctor but by the time I got face to face with him I forgot what I was there for.
That’s why a recent letter from my friend Monte Mills was so appreciated. Monte’s name may strike a chord with some of you. In my neck of the woods if you have an affair that celebrates our western culture and you want to hire a band for country entertainment, Monte Mills and his Lucky Horseshoe Band is the first name that comes to mind. Monte is a fabulous performer and you never know who he might drag along as a guest in his band. It might be a old member of Merle Haggard’s band or a young girl who plays the fiddle better than Charlie Daniels did and sings like a songbird.
I first met Monte decades ago when I hired him as my horseshoer. After one visit I never used anyone else. Not only was Monte a great horseshoer but my horse Gentleman liked Monte’s crude dog tricks. So did I. I don’t know if Monte’s most recent story is a true one or fabricated but it sure sounds like something that could’ve happened. I better tell it while I can still remember it.
It seems that Cooter had just left the sale barn in Butte, Montana, and as he left the building he reached into his right pant’s pocket for his truck keys and got that sick feeling all of us elderly Americans get when we lose something. Cooter gave himself a rather intimate TSA pat down and couldn’t find his keys in any of his pockets so he did a quick 180 and went back into the sale barn. He went immediately to where he’d been sitting and asked everybody in the immediate vicinity if they’d seen his keys. Nope.
Then Cooter thought that he’d probably just left his keys in his truck’s ignition like we’ve all done. Yup, that’s probably what he did. His wife, Verna Faye, had scolded him a thousand times for leaving his keys in the ignition and warned him that someday someone would steal his much beloved truck. But the older Cotter got the more he believed in the ignition theory, that it was the safest place to leave his keys. That way he’d always know where they were. Theoretically, at least.
So once again Cooter frantically left the sale barn and headed out into the parking lot which was a sea of white pickup trucks. Cooter methodically went up and down every row of trucks but the closer he got to the end the more he realized he was going to have to admit to Verna Faye that someone had indeed, stolen his truck. Once again Cooter went back into the sale barn to ask the clerk at the window if she’d fetch the phone number for the highway patrol. Cooter gave them all the pertinent information about his stolen truck and his contact information.
Then Cooter made the call he dreaded. “Hello, Honey,” he stammered. (He always called Verna Faye “Honey” when he was in the doghouse.) “I’m afraid I left my keys in the truck and wouldn’t you know it, someone stole it.”
There was a long silence and Cooter thought that perhaps the cell call had been dropped but then he heard the dulcet tones of Verna Faye. “Cooter,” she barked. “I dropped you off at the sale barn on my way to the grocery store, you @#$%^% idiot!”
Meekly Cooter asked, “Well, Dear,” (that’s what he called Verna Faye when he was really in deep doo doo), “would you come and get me?”
Verna Faye screamed, “I will just as soon as I can convince these blankety-blank highway patrolmen that I haven’t stolen your @#$%^& truck.
