I get a lot of remarks about my memory, because I know the names of many residents and, I think, nearly all the staff. Really nice lady I sit next to at lunch claims awful memory. Probing a bit deeper I find she has never bothered to know the names of the people who look after us. Ergo: if you do not know something, you cannot remember it. So, I may have a retentive memory, but what is retained has to be retrieved. I have my methods. Justine, a waitress, is tiny, looks about 12, has hair to her waist the same colour as my great-grand-daughter, walks purposefully and always looks worried. So Justine is in my memory as a person, not just one of ‘them’.

A son has been writing an article based on 60 years of memories,  aided by photos and the odd question to me. I riposted by asking how far he remembered without the possible aid of photographs. He came up with something which amazed me. We had no electricity, his father was replacing a delicate gas mantle. It was the ‘hiss’ which he found the most memorable, the Ascot water heater also ‘hissed’. No way could any photos exist, he had to be about 3 years old. So we got to discussing all the senses which bring back memories. You touch something in the dark, a spider, a slug, both tactile, enter the memory bank. In Perth, Australia, was a cafe, super breakfast, and they roasted and ground their own coffee, into the smell sensor. The noise of trembling poplar leaves, waves receding on a stony beach, sound. We had a ‘tour’ of the stones of a mediaeval village, our blind neighbour was there, a guide helped her ‘feel’ the different textures, make out the shape, touch. Then, of course, sight – perhaps the one we feel most important because it imposes itself all the time, TV, photos, books, where most of the facts in our memory bank come from.

On a slightly different tack. Mary’s recent blog was on the Four Humours, and how we see ourselves. I have a blog on ‘branding’ there are parallels. I was in a hotel in Windsor. Been talking to a couple of my childrens’ age. As they left they came up to me, she ‘I said to my husband, we must say good-bye to the old lady before we leave’. I was seriously shaken, stupid. I accept age, get on with and enjoy the company of all ages. But I was put in a ‘categorie’ and it made a profound impression. If I am truthful I know I am still in reasonable shape, work hard at remaining fit without going over the top. I dress well, occasionally flamboyantly. I can claim to be extrovert (not a Humour). I know I am old, I have birthdays. So why on earth was I upset? I hate photos, never look in a mirror if I can help it. I accept being old, but don’t want proof! 

The Gardener

A Moodscope member