North Star Writers Group

Some people believe forgetfulness is a natural by-product of growing older. I don’t buy that theory. I feel that way because I’m 63 . . .I mean 67 . ..and my mind is still as sharp as a proverbial nail . . . er, tack.

My first wife Stephanie. . . make that Sally . . . said to me last Tuesday . . . or maybe it was Wednesday. . . “Have you noticed you are forgetting things lately?”

“Huh?” I replied.

“You are forgetting things you used to remember,” she said.

“Who is?” I asked.

“You are,” she said.

I was quiet for a moment, then I said, “I are what?”

“See?” she said, stomping out of the room.

Quite frankly, I think she’s overreacting to the whole thing. Sure little things occasionally slip my mind, so to speak. But I eventually remember what it was that I forgot.

Like birthdays.

Sally made a big deal when I forgot her last birthday that’s in May. . . um . . . make that June. But I eventually remembered and gave her a gift. OK, OK, so she couldn’t use the bathing suit I gave her in December, but I’ve always believed it’s the thought that counts.

In my defense, there are lots of things I remember. Like the final score of the OSU -Michigan game in 1972. And my locker number when I was attending Central High School. And the address of the two-bedroom, pre-World War II bungalow in Flint, Michigan that I grew up in.

What I tend not to remember are relatively minor tidbits of information. Like the last four digits of my Social Security number. And my zip code. And the date of my last oil change.

The other day a friend asked me, “What’s your cell phone number, Bob?”

I told him, “I don’t know.”

He was shocked. “You don’t know your own cell phone number?”

“No,” I replied, “Because I never call me. If I was going to talk to me, I’d do it in person because it’s a lot less hassle.”

Given these occasional insignificant (my word) lapses of memory, I have devised a devilishly clever way to remind myself of the little things that sometimes temporarily slip my mind.

What I do is write myself little notes.

As writing goes, my notes to myself aren’t exactly Ernest Hemingway when it comes to prose. They are short, sweet and to the point.

Classic Bob Batz notes to himself include “Call home at 11 a.m.” and “Get a haircut on Tuesday.”

There are times when my pockets are stuffed full of these little messages. Ditto for my briefcase and the glove box of my car.

And if I run out of paper on which to scribble those notes, I just grab a pen and jot down the reminder on whatever happens to be handy.

That makes me easy to spot in a crowd.

I’m the guy with the words “take out the trash” on my right wrist . . . er. . . I mean right wrist.

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