I don’t know the 76 year old who doesn’t wrestle with this worry. We all have a variety of age related ailments, some more serious than others. I need a knee replacement but am otherwise in good health. Others around me are faced with far more ominous health problems but common to us all is a relentless loss of memory.

I have a good mind. I’ve often called it my ‘money maker’ as I trusted it to support me as I wandered through the chapters of my life. And it has, without fail. Until now. Little hints of the oncoming disturbance arrived with poor recall of familiar names. Now in fairness, I am notorious, always have been; even within my own family I am notorious for having to scale through my children’s names to eventually land on the right one. I mean come on! Give an old guy some rope, would you. I do have four children. Imagine the challenge I now have with an additional six grandchildren plus their various pets. They are all good with me though, patiently waiting while ‘Bumpy’ finds his way to the correct name. At the Christmas table that can take some time.

It confuses me though. I mean I can recite my BC drivers licence number, my SIN number, street addresses from a lifetime ago and phone numbers from two decades ago but ask me to remember a name and I go blank.

I can remember a time when I was a morning radio show host in Kelowna, British Columbia. I enjoyed a small town celebrity fame and people would stop me on the street to say ‘hello’ or ask for an autograph. I would tell my young daughter Sophie, who would often accompany me,

“Listen Soph, if we stop to talk to somebody on the street, I may need your help. If I don’t introduce you to them, that means I don’t know their names. So, I will say, “This is my daughter.”

“What do I do daddy?”

“You put out your hand to shake theirs and they will say “And what is your name little girl?’

“And you say ‘Sophie’. And they will then tell you their name.”

Worked every time. Sophie was an irresistible sidekick and collector of names.

But all that aside it is an increasingly real issue as I age. It’s not my memory I worry about it’s the loss of memories. It’s one of the reasons I write, I can store them in. a safe place. I take a lot of photographs as well, for the same reason. They capture a moment and store a memory for later enjoyment.

And I tell stories, something I love to do and for the most part they are well received. But I tell them for another reason as well. I tell them to remember them. And of course as with everything, it has its limits. My wife Mac is the greatest friend a man could ever hope for, forever patient and supportive as I spelunk my way through the various passages of my life, although even her patience has its limits. I can recall one great dinner we were hosting many years ago. We were at our home in Kelowna. I was in ‘full Tony’, an irrepressible and boisterous host,

“Let me tell you about a murder trial I did in Whitehorse a few years back”

You show me the dinner guest that can resist that invitation.

I began,

“There she was naked on the bed. Dead.”

And with that my wife stood up at the head of the table and said,

“I am sorry. This is a great story but I have heard it now, at least twice a year for the last thirty-two years of. my life.”

Matching as it happens the number of years we had been together. Mac continued.

“By my reckoning that is at least sixty-four times I have heard this story. I just can’t sit through it again, not this evening.”

She said it with no rancour no, she loves me and Mac knows my storytelling is a very happy place for me. No, she said it with grace and humour and then walked out of the room, seeking quiet sanctuary, a Tony free space.

“The story takes eighteen minutes. I’ll be back then.”

And she was. I still tell that story. It still takes eighteen minutes. It is a memory and it safe. So far.

My granddaughter Rowe has just turned four. She is a wonderful child and has been blessed with an inquisitive mind, and an insatiable appetite for learning. One day, not so long ago, she turned, looked at me with her big brown eyes and said,

“Bumpy?”

“Yes sweetheart.”

“Bumpy, I have a vulva.”

She had locked onto my eyes. There was no escape and for once I was at a loss for words, although I instinctively knew that I was ‘in a moment’ I would want to remember forever. She is of course, the child of modern parents who have made it their purpose to teach their children the correct names for their body parts. After all we have no trouble teaching them ‘eyes’, ‘nose’ ‘mouth’ … ‘ears’ … of course it follows that Rowe has been taught the proper name for the rest of her body. I mean it would be weird to hear a child say, ‘eyes’, ‘nose’, mouth’, ‘ears’ … ‘down there’ … wouldn’t it?

All that aside though, I did not have the time to think it through. I was caught in the revealing cross fire of a three year olds announcement. So I dug deep and relied on instinct.

“Bumpy?”

“Yes sweetheart?”

“Bumpy, I have a vulva.”

“I know sweetheart, and Bumpy has a Subaru.”

Boom! Nailed it. Comedy gold and now a memory saved for all time.

I’ll leave it to Rowe’s parents to pick up the pieces. I’m sure they can explain that Bumpy’s ‘Subaru’ is not ‘down there”.