Memory, mishap, and the modern mind

My trip last weekend to Vermont to install a friend as the pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Barre was great but didn’t begin well.

Less than a mile outside of Valdese, nosing my Subaru onto Interstate 40 at Mach speed, the first thing I remembered I forgot was my scarf.

The Vermont weather forecast predicted temps that would barely inch above freezing. Snow was expected every day. I needed my scarf.

When I took the exit onto U.S. 321 at Hickory, I remembered with a jolt that I forgot my passport. A recent N.C. driver’s license — a Real ID — will do the trick. But a passport is a must for international travel. Just in case I got the urge to jet off to Paris, I’d need my passport.

When possible, Rachel and I stay the night with our son and daughter-in-law before we fly from Charlotte. They live near the airport. This gives us the opportunity to enjoy dinner with them and visit the grand pets.

The next day Ben and their dog Indy are our Uber-ride to the airport. We don’t have to sweat parking.

Before dinner, I dropped into the mall in hopes of buying a scarf. Winter clothes had been replaced with swimwear, floral shirts, and flip flops.

On a clearance rack at Old Navy, I discovered a lone white scarf balled up next to mittens and unsellable leftovers from Valentine’s Day. It was fuzzy, fringed with gaudy tassels, and hung below my knees. It was very warm, and it made me look like a pimp.

I bought it.

Later that night, after dinner with Faith and Ben, I discovered other forgotten necessities.

I forget my meds.

Toothpaste. I forgot that, too.

I remembered at the last minute to pack a necktie and a dress shirt for Sunday afternoon’s worship service. A suit is standard uniform when you’re the guest preacher.

But I forgot my phone charger.

When I finally settled after boarding the airplane for Burlington by way of Philadelphia, I rummaged through my backpack for my laptop.

It wasn’t there.

I had last used it in Ben’s kitchen. Before we pushed back from the gate, I urgently texted him. He immediately scoured the house. No, it wasn’t in the guestroom. It wasn’t in the kitchen, the den, the living room. No laptop.

Then I remembered.

I never picked it up from our TSA friends who rushed me through their security line in the Charlotte airport. I could see it clearly in my mind’s eye, gleaming silver in its plastic tray like a dazed fish.

On my layover in Philadelphia, I sat quietly near the lactation station and pondered my lapses of memory. They say that if you think you might be losing your memory that’s a pretty good sign you are not.

I used to take comfort in the possible truth of that wives’ tale. After today, I’m not so sure.

I was mad at myself. This spate of forgetfulness made me feel insecure and wonky. Was the culprit normal aging, every day stress, distraction, or full-on cognitive failure? Next, will I forget the names of my cats? My children?

I could not possibly be the only traveler in concourse A who felt a little out of sorts.

The man laboring down the wide hall with the furrowed brow, coat over his arm, wheeled suitcase following him like a puppy may have been journeying to his childhood home to scatter the ashes of his father.

What had he forgotten to pack as he rummaged through the attic of memory, cataloguing the things he should have said to his father but never did?

And if the woman at the gate for St. Croix was going on vacation and didn’t have a care in the world, why did she chomp on her gum like she was chewing nails?

Was the tall woman dressed like an azalea running for her gate or fleeing something? It could have been either.

After an Indian dinner with my friend in Montpelier, I lay in bed wondering what else I would remember that I forgot.

I brought six magazines and two books. I brought my marked-up sermon notes for Sunday. I brought different colored socks for every day of my stay.

But, I forgot Chapstick. I forgot pajamas. I forgot a notebook with real pages, and I always carry a notebook. I nearly forgot to hug my wife goodbye.

We live in a culture that can’t concentrate, a culture where everything in our life is password protected. If you don’t remember your PIN, you’ll find yourself locked out of not only your double-authenticated online bank account but your life.

Without a proper facial ID or fingerprint, you can’t access your document folder that has a file conspicuously entitled “passwords” that lists everything an old man should never be expected to remember on his own.

Yale University reports a growing number of U.S. adults report cognitive disability.

I felt a thud in my chest when I realized I had also forgotten we were at war with Iran.

The U.S. strike that flattened a school in Minab in southern Iran on February 28 still makes me shudder. How many of the dozens killed were children? Is that what they deserved for attending a school so close to an alleged military target? Those families had been in my prayers daily, but not last night.

Because I forgot.

Perhaps it is preposterous what the whiplash of modern life requires us to remember. Last weekend I forgot both the mundane and the unconscionable.

Makes me worry if I’m well on the way to losing my mind.