Who Am I?

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A nobody; a nitwit; a pilot; a motorcyclist; a raconteur; a lover...of life - who loves to laugh, who tries to not take myself (or anything) too seriously...just a normal guy who knows his place in the universe by being in touch with my spiritual side. What more is there?

09 September 2019

Total Recall

Oh, I’m glad I’m not a writer. My friend Terry actually is a writer. He’s got a book that’s out now called, “The Broken Earth.” It’s a historical novel, set in the time right after the end of the Civil War.

Being old (semi-)retired guys, Terry and I have a lot of free time. So we go out to eat a lot – breakfasts and lunches, mostly. When the weather is nice, we'll hop on our motorcycles early and ride off to someplace interesting for breakfast. And last Thursday we did just that.

Since we live in diametrically opposite ends of our little coastal city, we met up in downtown Pensacola just after sunrise. From there we rode out to the beach, and then eastbound on Route 399 which connects Pensacola Beach and Navarre Beach.

Rte 399 is a stunningly beautiful road that traverses the thin, fragile barrier island of sugar-white sand and sea oats. There used to be tall dunes on either side, hindering the view of the Gulf of Mexico, but Hurricanes Erin, Opal and Ivan respectively blew the dunes away. Now, drivers and motorcycle riders have a clear view of the water for the entire ride. Along the way, we stopped at various points to take some pictures of our bikes in the soft morning sun.

At one such photo-op, Terry began waxing poetic, as he's sometimes inspired to do. ”The sun is sparkling on the water…like…the diamonds on a little girl’s…something…” And that’s when I walked away to let him compose his poem in peace. I am not a fan of poetry. I am definitely…and defiantly not a poet.

At breakfast in a restaurant called Juana’s Pagoda on the water in Navarre Beach, Terry regaled me, as he usually does, with stories of his youth. He has an uncanny ability to remember intricate details of every person he’s ever met, all the way back to his elementary school days and maybe as early as the womb. He knows stuff like his late father’s birthday, as well as the day and date that he died. When he was a taxi- and then later an Uber driver, he would remember all of the details of the lives of every passenger he carried. It’s a unique – and quite bizarre – trait.

Sometimes, when we’re together, Terry will bring up stories from his past – events that happened, or people that he knew. Just being someplace can trigger odd memories for him, which he recalls with surprising clarity.

I am often astounded and amazed, and more than a little impressed at Terry’s ability to remember these kinds of things. But then it dawns on me: He’s a writer. He needs to remember these things because those very details are what allow him to flesh-out the backgrounds of the characters in the books he writes.

Me, I’d have to make it all up. I don’t remember shit. And moreover, I don’t want to. As soon as my passengers are out of my car, they’re gone from my consciousness. I don't remember which day of the week my dad died - hell, I don't even remember what year he died.  I’d never make a good cop; my powers of observation and retention are poor.

Police Officer (showing me two pictures: one, a mugshot of a man and the other, a security camera picture of a man with a gun getting out of my Uber in a bank parking lot): ”Mr. Barbanes, is this the man you dropped off at the Hancock Bank on Airport Road at 2:53 yesterday afternoon…the man that robbed that bank?”

Me: ”Uhhh, durrrrr…could be…”

Terry would know the man’s life story…where he grew up, who his parents were, how many brothers and sisters he had, that he had a mole on the back of his neck, what he’s doing in Pensacola, and what he plans to do with the money.

So not only would I not make a good policeman, I’ll never be a good novelist, either.

Terry, on the other hand, has that gift of being able to jot stuff down in his mind and file it away for future use. Thus, he’ll be able to populate his books with interesting people and their unique personalities. You know how movie or book critics sometimes complain that, ”The characters were not well-developed.” Well, Terry won’t ever have to hear that said about his work.

4 comments:

Ed said...

In a way, I'm somewhat like Terry, I always get flashbacks to events in my past based off something in the present and can remember stuff that many of my family can't. But, I wouldn't say it was total recall by any means. However, this power is balanced out by the fact that I can't remember names of people. I took a Dale Carnegie course that helped improve that so maybe I'm slightly below average now, but I still struggle unless I've met you in person and heard your name at least about ten times.

My mom died on a Friday but I have two advantages to remembering that. It happened slightly less than a year ago and it was Black Friday, the morning after Thanksgiving.

Bob Barbanes: said...

My memory is awful - always has been. And it's getting worse every year. So I don't even really try to remember people's names. Which often leads to the old (and awkward), "Don't you remember? We met back when..." And I just shrug and weasely explain that I meet a gazillion people a year. Which I don't. I'm not exactly Paul McCartney.

At our family reunion last year, all of us six kids were together for the first time in...ohhh, ever. As we discussed some of the noteworthy events that we shared collectively, it was amazing to me how much I did not remember, or remembered incorrectly. It taught me something about memory, and how it can fool us. I perceived a particular event one way at the time, and that's the way it was burned into my memory. But others perceived it differently. And it turns out that it was my perception that was faulty. Strange, that.

Terry and were sitting on the deck outside of Juana's in Navarre Beach, just kind of staring out over the water, enjoying the peacefulness of the quiet morning. And suddenly he goes, "You know, this reminds me of the time I was living in New Orleans right after a got out of college..." ...Which had to be forty years ago. I asked if he lived on the water...Lake Ponchartrain or somewhere? "No," he said, "it's just something about sitting here at this place that makes me think back."

I was, like, uhhhh-oh, okay. What?

It wasn't so much the direct experience itself of sitting on a deck on a calm bay on a warm, peaceful morning that reminded him of a similar experience on a similar day in New Orleans. Rather it was the feeling of it that brought up the memory. Hmm. Funny stuff, memories.

When I flew out in the Gulf of Mexico in the 1990's, I knew pilots who would tell vivid stories about their experiences in Viet Nam twenty-five years earlier - as if they happened yesterday! To these guys, the memories were very much still alive. It seemed that they hadn't moved on much. (And perhaps going to war was the most profound thing that ever happened to them and that everything since then had been rather...routine if not boring.)

I wasn't in the military and I didn't go to war, but I've been on the planet for a long time now. I try not to let my past experiences catch up with me. Because every time I conjure up some fond memory, I end up thinking to myself, "Jeez, that was forty years ago?!" And then I get all depressed.

Instead, I try very hard to "live in the moment" and just enjoy the now without always linking it (consciously or subconsciously) to things that have already happened. I used to have a friend who would say about someone, disparagingly, "He's like a goose - he wakes up in a new world every morning." I did not know this about geese...do they do that, have no conscious memory of what happened yesterday? Because if so, I must be a lot like a goose too.

Bob said...

First, please don’t say you’re not a writer. You might not write books, but I’ve been reading eight-ish years of pretty delightful storytelling right here on this blog, whether it’s been about your days as a pilot for the rich guy in Alabama, your travels on your motorcycle or your adventures in Washington state — not to mention the interesting people you know and your opinion on various matters. If you didn’t have a knack for putting words together in an interesting way, believe me, I wouldn’t have stuck around all this time.

Memory is a funny thing. I’m one of those who can recall pretty vivid detail from way back in my childhood. And I know the dates both of my parents and my brother passed away, although I don’t always remember it on those dates. I find if I pay careful attention when someone tells me his/her name, I can remember it. Certain songs will trigger memories, or even smells. I was recently with a cousin who has Alzheimer’s and he can tell you all about things he did 30-40 years ago, but forgets that that he ate breakfast at 8 a.m. and tries to eat again at 9.

Bob Barbanes: said...

Well, Bob...wow - thank you for that! I appreciate those kind words. But the truth is, I'm more of a reporter than a writer. When I read Terry's book, with all of the characters and scenes he created so vividly, I thought to myself, "How does he DO that??" (Yes, two question marks!) I'm totally envious of those who I call "real writers," who can come up with these stories and populate them with interesting characters and make me believe I'm "there."

Just after high school, I got a job at a radio station owned by a friend of mine. And, although I was no Howard Stern (who nobody had heard of in 1973), I did well! Apparently I have the perfect face for radio.

One of my first tasks was to write some commercial copy for one of our advertisers. I was reluctant. I said, "Uhh, I'm really more of a creative writer." Which I wasn't. I only thought I was because I wrote a few good essays in 12th grade English and my dumb teacher said, "Oooh, you should be a writer!" Talk about giving kids false hope! Anyway, my boss at the radio station goes, "Believe me, when you're writing commercial copy, you absolutely need to be a creative writer!" Which was true, as it turned out. It also turned out that while I wasn't a Howard Stern, neither was I a Stephen King, who also nobody had yet heard of in 1973.

I do go off on tangents...

Getting back to the topic at hand...memory. As you say, Bob, it sure is funny. As I get older, I find it harder and harder to remember things...things that used to be right in the front of my brain. Now I have to search for them. It used to bother me a bit, but now I don't even care. I just shrug it off. All part of aging, I guess. That, or there's just too much crap in my brain and it's all cluttered up like the walk-in closet my bedroom.

I blame the internet!