Yeah, actually not so much anymore. Remember that is. I used to take it for granted, I think we probably all do but these days I realize my memories and my ability to remember are like buried treasure. Who knows where they are buried but when you stumble across an old memory long since buried away under layers of time, it is a good day! And don’t get me started on remembering what I did yesterday.

Bloody thing is insidious as well, it creeps up on you so slowly one can be forgiven for not noticing. Until you do. Or until you’re forced to. Of course there’s tactics to deal with it, or hide it. There’s lists for example, lots of lists. There’s friendly reminders. My wife Mac always asks me just before I leave the house

“Spectacles, testicles, wallet and phone?”

I have never forgotten all four.

And memory is so random. I can remember Mr. Hallisey, my grade six teacher in Kelowna BC in detail; what he looked like, his voice, things he said to me. I can remember all that like it was yesterday. But I can’t remember yesterday. Wait until it’s your turn. That is just weird!

So I busy myself mind exercising, everyday. I do Wordle and the NY Times spelling bee, I read a lot and I write even more. I think of it as kind of like taking my mind to the ‘gym’ for a daily workout. And you’ll not be surprised to hear this, I talk a lot. To anyone. All they need is a voice, a pulse and a glancing look and in I go,

“Hello.”

And I tell stories. I am a story teller. Well, you might ask someone worried about a fading memory ” Isn’t that a challenge?” And ‘no’ is the answer. My mentor the great American humourist David Sekaris says the truth is not the responsibility of the storyteller, that he says is in the hands of the listener. Well then okay, if I’m not bound by the truth, or let’s say accuracy, I have at east another ten years of writing ahead of me. I can go all unleashed anarchic nihilist, like some rabid GOP congressman totally unhinged from the truth and it seems I’ll get a hall pass.

Wow, that turned dark all of a sudden. It’s not where I wanted to take this. Not that I know in this moment, exactly where I do want to take this. If I do have an idea of where I want to go with this blog it’s sure as hell is not down that rabbit hole.

So where was I? Ah yes, I think I want to encourage you to write.

Memory is a Beast with a mind of its own, which it chooses to share from time to time. Or not. I’ve always been a wee bit absent minded, all my life as I recall but this, whatever ‘this’ is, is not about being absent minded it’s more about an absent mind. Careening along the darkened hallways of my ageing mind is like driving at night in the hills of Tuscany. I never know what’s coming at me around the next corner. And it’s a little bit frightening.

Ah ha, and there it is. This blogs destination is Tuscany! Now, there’s a place where I have experienced some of my most treasured memories. And here’s the thing. When I was last in Tuscany in 2007 I wrote about it all in a beautiful leather bound diary. I didn’t know at the time how precious it would become. I didn’t know at the time that I would be able to revisit my memories long after the details had faded from my mind. Long after I couldn’t remember them like they were yesterday.

We were a travelling party of eight.

“We had arranged to all meet in Florence and travel from there to our villa in Tuscany. Our party of eight and not just any party of eight but this party of eight! Stacy, Rick, Darlene, Paul, Rose, Bernie, Mac and Tony and not a shrinking violet in the bunch. Each and everyone of us had our own private ‘to do’ and ‘must see’ list, all of us considerate and fair and submissive to the group will. Well submissive isn’t the right word for Stacy but what the hell, you know what I mean.

The next day this herd of cats left for Firenza, on our first grand adventure together. It was a hot muggy day. Firenza is remarkable, the capital of what was once a powerful city state, at war against the hated Sienese for several centuries through the Black Plague of 1358 and beyond. The Duomo, the Ponte Vecchio (the covered bridge over the Arno River) with its shops and apartments, is centuries old. We arrived early and walked to an open market, a very happy place for Stacy and Mac, not so much for the ‘the boys’. From there we went on a forced march for our 11:30am reserved tour at the Academia Museum, home to Michelangelo’s ‘David’.

I led the way, map in hand, winding our way over ancient streets, through throngs of people, over narrow sidewalks. Tensions, I could sense, were rising in my extended single line herd of cats, each caught up in their own experience of the moment, beads of sweat running down my chest and back. Rick, I’m sure was in full grumble, although I am only guessing as he was out of earshot. Stacy is impatient in the moment but keen on our destination. Mac as ever calm and supportive. Bernie limping, Rosie as ever worried, for Bernie, Darlene and Paul unamused. Add in sweaty, muggy weather, car clogged streets, horns blaring, sirens piercing the air and thousands of thousands of other ‘cats’, each of them part of their own herd, the quick insistent pace of our walk and I hope I have captured for you that moment in time for our happy party of eight. The consolation of course is that it was then what it remains today, part of our wonderful textured story of shared experience and friendship.“

And a few pages on, another treasure.

“ROMA

What an extraordinary beginning. There is no getting ready for Roma, a sensual magnificent city, throbbing with energy, self aware, self absorbed, full of style, of grace, a city certain of its place, sure that all roads lead to Roma. Two thousand years in the making there are buildings like the Colosseum which had fallen into disrepair over sixteen hundred years ago. We are staying at the Hotel Lancelot, Rue Africa, a few hundred meters from the Colosseum, the Palatine and the Circus Maximus. It is a hotel straight out of a 19th century romance novel, small, intimate and welcoming, a wonderful oasis in a city that at any moment can overwhelm a visitor.

Roma is intoxicating and I love being here, drinking it all in, becoming aware that I have never been in a place like this before – frantic, intense, romantic, sexual, a city defined by style. Men look at a woman as though she is the only woman alive; hungry, intense, sensual, impatient. And these Roman women absorb it, appreciate it, embrace it. Mac experiences that directness when a well dressed Italian man approaches her outside a men’s clothing shop near the Trevi Fountain.

“Ummmmhhhhhh! Bella.” he looks right at Mac, sniffing the night air with a primal awareness.

“Your perfume, it is a beautiful choice for you.”

He had smelled her and spoke directly to her. I know this happened because I was there, standing beside her. In fact, he walked right past me as he spoke to Mac. He was sensual, direct and Italian, in another time and place disarming. Her gelato, the first she’d allowed herself in months, melted. From there a simple nod of admiration from a man as he passed her on an escalator. Of course it didn’t go without notice that she looked incredibly beautiful, like an unattainable movie star rising silently on the escalator, her dark glasses adding an air of mystery. The butcher in our small village of Podere Barberino Val d’Elsa speaking to her as though she was the only woman in the shop, somehow turning the purchase of pollo into a tango between a man and a woman. It is fascinating to be in Italy, these appreciative cultured men and the women who know them, it is a place I have ‘lived’ much of my life but never in a country where it is such a natural way to be.“

It is a magnificent memory.

Every time I read this story about our time in Tuscany so many years ago I savour every word. So if there is any wisdom to pass on and about that I acknowledge I have very little on offer, it is to write. Write your stories down in as much detail as you can possibly muster. I promise you that they will gain in meaningfulness and importance and beome an invaluable treasure chest of memories, a way to remember it all. It is a gift to your future self.

Like writing about Tuscany was for me.

I remember it like it was yesterday.