Strange Memories

Strange Things I Remember.

Or perhaps I should say odd things that I remember.  For whatever reason, my mind is like a steel trap.  Unfortunately important things that go in are lost in the labyrinth of my thought process forever, while totally meaningless trivia is at the tip of my fingers (so to speak).

Such as: Astor Ave, Aura Ave, Burbank Blvd, Van Owen St, Victory Blvd,  Glade St. E. Phyllis St, Sawtell Blvd, Bull Run Rd, Bowes Bend Dr and Quail ridge Dr.  What are these you ask?  Well maybe not, but I’ll tell you anyway.  These are all streets that I have lived on since birth.  There are a few missing, but not many.

Mrs. Gale was my kindergarten teacher and I was teacher’s pet.  I sat in her lap every chance I got.  I also told her it was my father’s birthday and when she asked which one, I said, “I don’t know but it’s the one after 44.”

When I was about 15, I told one of my mother’s co-workers that his wiener got loose, meaning his yappy little daschund, but of course, he looks down at his zipper.  I was mortified.

Talk about being mortified.  My cousin Walter Neal, AKA Duke, went camping with us when we were in high school.  That night he climbed into his sleeping bag and after a few minutes, he bolted out of the bag screaming, “I’m being mortified, I’m being mortified.”  We finally figured out he meant “molested”.  That was a bug in his sleeping bag.

And then…there was the time I was a reporter on the school newspaper in middle school and my assignment was to find out why two of the teachers were leaving at the end of the year.  The teacher goes on to say, “Mrs. Brown is pregnant, that’s pretty obvious.”  So what?  Back in the very early sixties, a woman was expecting, not pregnant.  I thought the teacher had said a bad word.

Oh how innocent I was.