The other day on the radio, somebody mentioned that a person over the age of 18 loses about a thousand brain cells a day. Yikes!
First, I worried about the impact that might have on my memory. Then, I recalled that somebody else had told me that a full grown adult has over a hundred billion brain cells in there to begin with. I did the math (I had to use a calculator, however, not my brain) and I figured out – at that loss rate – it would take about 300,000 years for my brain to run out of cells. Still, I think the most dreaded question in the English language is:
“Can you remember…?”
Memory can be the most precious gift. It can also be among the most frustrating faculties of the brain to activate – trying to remember a telephone number, a street name, an e-mail address or just a piece of trivia in a conversation. When we were younger, it seemed, remembering things was never a problem. We could recite “by heart” the capitals of the 10 provinces and those of all 50 states. We remembered the names of all seven dwarfs without prompting. I worked in television with a co-host – Lee Mackenzie – who took great pride in reciting the name of that Welsh town purported to be the world’s longest place name:
“Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch,” she would spit out without the slightest hesitation. And we would all stand there stunned that she had memorized every last syllable. I wondered later how many brain cells she’d killed doing it.
Long place names aside, memory can be a blessing and a curse. I cannot sit through a play at the Shaw or Stratford festivals without imagining the extraordinary memorizing powers the actors exhibit each night on stage. I mean, we recited bits of poetry, you know, a line or two from “Ode on a Grecian Urn” or excerpts from the “Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam” and thought we were pretty good. But watching a William Hutt or a Frances Hyland deliver pages of dialogue, made our memorizing exploits seem pretty pedestrian.
On the lighter side, years ago, my sister memorized the children’s bedtime story of “Little Red Riding Hood,” as interpreted by a professor of French named Howard L. Chace. In Chace’s version – which my sister memorized verbatim – the phrases in the story descend into a ridiculous sounding vocabulary in which all words of the original story line are replaced by other, actual English words, but which have nothing to do with the original meaning.
So, “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived with her mother in a little cottage on the edge of a large, dark forest,” became “Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull hoe lift wetter inner ladle cordage honour itch of lodge, dock florist…” To this day, I don’t know how she managed to commit Dr. Chace’s “Anguish Languish” version so flawlessly to memory.
Even more amazing was the memorizing dexterity of the 1970s singing star Bobbie Gentry (remember the American chanteuse who penned the hit song “Ode to Billy Joe.”) Anyway, on one occasion back then, I managed to talk my way into a recording company reception for her; there had to be 150 people in the room, all eager to have a word with the talented and stunning Ms. Gentry.
Over the course of an hour or so, a record label flak circulated through the room with Gentry on his arm introducing her to each cluster of cocktail-drinking, enamoured media types.
It took some time before she and the CEO got to the little cluster of four people in my group. I introduced myself to her. She nodded dutifully, moved to the next guy and the next and nodded to them too. Then, taking advantage of the short lull in the conversation, I thought I’d ask her if she’d consent to an interview.
“Excuse me, Ms. Gentry,” I said…
And before I could blurt out my request, she turned back to me and said, “Yes, Ted, what was it you wanted?”
I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t believe it. Despite being inundated for an hour by a stream of names during her walk-about, she had miraculously remembered mine. She either had a photographic memory or she was such a pro at this meet-and-greet routine that she could pull off that kind of instant recall effortlessly. If I never remember another thing, I’ll not forget that Bobbie Gentry – for a few fleeting moments – remembered my name amid that sea of media faces and names.
Made my day, no matter how many brain cells I’d lost that day.