Forgetfulness & Old Age
Now that I am an 86-year-old person I am reminded anew almost every day about how forgetful old people are. But as I look back on my somewhat lackluster life I have to remind myself that my old age isn’t wholly responsible for my absentmindedness. I had a little bit of this even as a child. I remember overhearing my grandpa remark and sharing his concern with my mother about how forgetful I was, and this was when I was 6. Just last week I had to ask a young guy what his name is. A boy I knew quite well. I have often tried to cover this memory deficiency with saying things like, “oh he has a beard now.” But this guy didn’t. Sorry Dillon. So, I’ll just blame it on old age again, for now. And that works pretty well.
But I have to admit that my most shameful lapses in memory happened in my youth. I go to back to 1949 when dad bought the family a beautiful new 1949 Chevrolet. Boy that was a pretty car. “They’ve gone as far as they can go,” I thought, on engineering and automotive beauty. Then on the first Sunday we had it, while we were getting ready to go drive it down to the First Baptist Church there in Stonewall, I asked dad if I could drive it down to the mistletoe express office and pick up his Sunday Oklahoman. That’s where we had to go to in those days get our paper from Mr. Byers.
Now it wasn’t common for 13-year olds to sometimes drive a car in Stonewall but perhaps in a period of magnanimous feeling toward me that sabbath morning, Dad decided to let me drive the sparkling blue 4-door all the way to downtown Stonewall and pick up said newspaper. By myself. So away I went. I didn’t quite make it a direct trip. I took a circle longer route (to maximize my joy) and encountered David Ray Alexander walking along and generously offered up a ride, which he accepted. A little further I saw “Slim” Hamilton walking alone and sure enough he was soon a part of my load. We were quite taken with the new Chevy and soon tore out toward Ada on old Highway 3. I had felt an urge to see what the car would do. Wide open. When we got back to town the new engine was stinking hot.
I was now (somewhat too late) worried about the car Even more so about myself. It said there on a dashboard sticker that the new car had to be driven no more than 35MPH or less the first 500 miles to break in the engine. We had just determined the car could go no faster than 88MPH. Somewhat worried I got rid of my passengers and headed home. I could see my tell-it-all sister, Mana Sue, standing on the front porch, looking cute wearing her Sunday best, scanning the road anxiously. Yes, she was very worried about our new car and also being late for church. I, trying to look innocent, went in the house. I saw dad. I knew that he must have known somehow that I had grossly violated his trust. Then he asked, “Where’s my newspaper?”
The dialog inside the stinking new car was not happy. Don’t you just hate memories like these? But it does prove that to some extent, my memory is good enough to remember that sabbath morning. I can still remember the moments after we all loaded up our overdressed selves into the now “slightly used” Chevrolet with the odor of burning paint replacing the new car smell it had had earlier that nice fall morning, a long time ago in Stonewall, Oklahoma. I was tempted later that morning, during the invitation at the end of the service to creep forward and rededicate my life. But I knew it would not do me any good with my dad. His judgements exceeded those of God.
Speaking of this, let me remind you to be sure and go to church Sunday.
Wayne Bullard, PD