I have memory lapses. Long ones. Like, had you asked me about my favorite childhood books last week, I’m not sure how many I could have rattled off. Frankly, if you asked me about my favorite childhood books when I was eight years old, I likely wouldn’t have had any titles to give you either. I’d have looked up from whatever book I had my nose in, raised my eyebrows, shook the book at you, and then silently gone back to eating my Snickers bar and reading said book.
So reading these posts this week has been marvelous for me. I’ve remembered so many lovely books. Books that made me laugh, inspired me, fueled my creativity, kept me company. And which I promptly, shamelessly forgot. I’ve tried to get better about remembering why I love. The things, the people. Take my husband, and not in the Henny Youngman way. I always remember how much I love my husband, but every once in while he reminds me in the most unexpected ways.
As almost anyone knows, or could find out, I live in Naples, Florida. It’s a beautiful town. And it’s a wealthy town, with tons of elderly snowbirds who come down for the “season.” If you live in Naples year-’round, there is inevitably some point during season at which you just lose it. Today was that day for me.
So, we’re driving home from picking up a bb-q dinner tonight, and I am on a roll. You have a vast array of topics to choose from during lose-it point, some of which include traffic, rudeness, Publix shopping cart/deli wars, crowded restaurants, and snobbery. After a brief visit to an art gallery, it was this last topic that occupied me tonight, and the conversation went something like this:
K- ” ‘We summer in Marblehead!‘ Please, I mean, who talks like that? I don’t care! I don’t care who you know, or where your seven houses are, or which car you chose to take tonight, the Mercedes or the Lamborghini. God! I summer. Please.”
D- “Uh huh.”
K- “And can you believe he actually touched the painting?! Who does that? I mean, where were these people raised? Would they go to a museum and touch a painting?”
D- “Uh huh.”
K- “God, I want to get out of this town sometimes. (pause) I miss my books. (Side note: my books, ALL of my books, my many, many beloved books, are packed in boxes and in our attic, because we don’t have room for them all in our sweet little house. The plan is to get a bigger house, so that one day I can have my books, and maybe even a desk. But this likely entails moving out of Naples, because in order for you to get a house over 325 square feet you must have a trust fund. And you probably have to summer somewhere too. So, any rant about the irritants of season inevitably turns to me missing my books.)
D- “I miss my youth.”
K- laughing “At least my books are retrievable.”
D- “I have great hope for liposuction.”
K- laughing harder, unable to form pithy retort
D- “And goat placenta.”
I almost slide onto the floorboards in laughter. He rolls our windows down, turns up The Eagles, and I am reminded again exactly how much I do love this man. I might forget about A Wrinkle In Time, but, you see, my tiny little memory bank is overloaded with memories of the times my husband has made me laugh, at life and at myself.
Besides, there’s always the library.
Any guy who mentions liposuction and goat placenta in the same breath is okay by me. I feel your book pain. I would have a heart attack if I couldn’t have every last book I own shelved. I’ve even considered getting rid of an antique pine hutch in the dining room and building floor to ceiling bookcases. We book lovers are an odd lot. Loved your post. I grew up in a tourist town and was always irritated by the richies. They can’t help being ignorant when they converge on somewhere pristine. Brings out the worst in them.
Perhaps you could summer somewhere that has room for your books?
GREAT post!
Forgive me if I’m my memory lapses here, Kristy, but I seem to recall that your husband has an art gallery. What you need is a book gallery and “D” sounds as though he’ll one day give you that…with love.
No doubt about it… your husband’s a keeper.
I used to kick myself in the ass for my own terrible memory lapses, but now I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I am the way I am for a reason. If I had a perfect memory, I wouldn’t get to use my imagination to fill in the blanks and this often jumpstarts story ideas. I’m learning to embrace my Swiss cheese memory!
OMG
You are married to my husband.
Only a man of value and grace can diffuse a rant with goat placenta.
Kristy, I love this. And I love that your husband handles you the way mine handles me. Cause we all know how much I love to rant.
xo
BTW, I summer in Nashville. Funny, I fall, winter and spring there too.
*I* love your husband! How totally wonderful is he? And come on, who are we kidding … could he be keeping any better company than you? I think not!
I had my disgruntled breakdown last week. Come to think of it, I’ve been having one every week … bless our husbands for being on the buddy system with us to keep us laughing or, in the very least, honoring their vows and not complete hightailing it in the other direction (really, I was practically knife-wielding disgruntled — fortunately that doesn’t faze my husband much anymore, or even my kids … “Oh, that’s just my wife/mom. She has a new book coming out …”
Goat placenta, hmm…
Laughing out loud. Can’t stop.
Great post. I like to think my inability to remember things is because those places are full of other great stuff, too….