​A lot of people worry about their memories. You hear from people as they age about how they forgot what they ate for lunch earlier in the day or what the name was of the person they were introduced to at a business meeting in the mid-afternoon. Who cares?
 
We forget a lot of stuff. We forget way more than we remember or learn. We’d go crazy if we didn’t.
 
At the same time, I find it quite strange that certain words cause me a mental block and I can’t seem to retrieve them quickly and conveniently during a conversation. For example, “autism” is a word I seem to forget all the time.
 
I could be speaking with someone about Special Olympics and trying to remember a story to tell about an autistic kid on the court when I was refereeing basketball over 30 years ago. I’ll try and try to remember the word, and I’ll think of Down’s Syndrome or Asperger’s but I can’t get “autism” to register in my brain.
 
Then, after telling the story and having to modify details to cover my mental block, whammo, the word magically reappears in my mind. We all do this, of course. Something in our brains runs funny when we try to retrieve data and we can’t put into words an event or name that we KNOW we know.
 
The best tactic is to relax and forget about it (probably good advice for many events) and it will resurface. In fact, I make that point often when listening to people as they tell a story and get frustrated with not being able to remember a specific name or word. “Stop thinking about it. Just tell the story. It will come back to you.” And it does. Eventually.
 
What seems odd to me personally is the words I blank on repeatedly. As noted, “autism” is one of them.
“Valium is another.” A third is “Alfredo sauce.” Not sure what the correlation is between the three. They all have the letter “a” in there, but that’s about it.
 
Two nights ago I made an Alfredo dish for our younger daughter and her boyfriend. I described the dish to her with all the ingredients, but damned if I could come up with the name of the sauce. I can always remember “spaghetti” sauce, but not “Alfredo.” Maybe I’ll get better at this just by writing this column and imprinting the word into my memory.
 
“Valium” is not a word I use often, but when someone speaks of taking a drug to help them relax and they have a prescription, I go, “Is it ……? What the heck is the name of that drug that’s been around a long time that helps you decompress?” Again, for some reason I can’t verbalize it. I know it; I’ve heard it many times; but I can’t raise it with immediacy.
 
None of this is really a big deal. We all block on certain words. Memories work in strange ways. And there are easy methods to get your brain to more consistently retrieve data.
 
I guess I just really don’t care enough to focus on those words to ensure I can retrieve them repeatedly without hesitation. Maybe it just makes for a column or conversation subject, so my mind conveniently forgets. We’ll see how it goes next time.

​The headline for this column might be a bit confusing. It’s not about a tie that men wear professionally and how you change it. It’s about the tie used to secure cat litter bags.
 
Let me explain. When it comes to opening packages, I’m one of those “tear the crap out of it” kinda guys. Rip it open. Spill the contents. Use your teeth if you have to. Don’t worry about whether there’s a “correct” way to open a box you’ve received.

This, of course, can cause problems when manufacturers or packagers choose to throw you a curveball. Rather than making the container easy to open, they design it in such a way that you can’t figure it out, probably in an attempt to frustrate you and get you to yell at your spouse or kids, “HELP ME, or I’m gonna pop a blood vessel in more forehead.” I’ve had more than my share of moments like that over the years.

Typically, my wife is there to help. She quietly, easily and successfully opens the package perfectly, like it came straight from her DNA. My response is a “thank you,” and, “How the heck did you do that?”
 
She’ll show me, and then I know what to do. She should write directions for companies. She’d be a billionaire.
 
Our cat litter bag changed how it was to be opened about 6-7 years ago. Previously the litter was housed in a paper sack lined with a thin layer of plastic. You just ripped it open. My kinda product.
 
They changed to a full plastic bag soon after that and used a thread through the plastic that you had to locate and yank to rip off the top. It took me multiple sessions with my wife to absorb that lesson and get it down. Many new curse words emerged during that time period.

I mastered it though. I was comfortable. Life was good. Get rid of the old litter first thing Sunday mornings, pull out the fresh bag, rip the thread off, listen to the rippling sound as it popped off, pour the litter, put the little roof back on, and the cats are good for another week.

Until the manufacturers decided to go to a zip tie a few weeks back that looked exactly like their previous system but didn’t operate the same way. Problem. I carry the bag in, lay it down, fumble around with my cigar-like fingers and can’t for the life of me figure out what has changed. Of course, there is nothing written on the container to say, “WE HAVE A NEW ZIP TIE TO CONFUSE YOU SO YOU CAN’T OPEN THIS BAG THE SAME WAY YOU USED TO.”
 
Instead, you kneel in the half-light, trying to read the small print, unwilling to get your reading glasses, because, “DAMMIT, I CAN FIGURE THIS THING OUT.”
 
Learning doesn’t come about through osmosis. Sometimes it is successful through trial and error, which was the case this time, as I eventually found were the “pull” was that allowed me to rip the thread and pop open the bag.

I didn’t have to get my wife, so there’s some solace in that progress in my bag-opening life. Some day I’ll recognize and understand bag-opening changes instantaneously, and then I’ll know it’s time to retire and teach others the tricks of the trade.

​Every once in a while you have to bash television shows. This past summer I read some amazing reviews about Love Island (LI), the British version, and how the U.S. version was looking to be even better.
 
I’m not a big reality show person, though I had a long love affair with Survivor and it took me something like 18 seasons (9 years) to break my addiction. Everyone in our family slowly dropped out, and finally it became too repetitive and predictable even for me, so I let it sink into the sea.
 
Other than that, I haven’t ever watched more than an episode or two of The Voice or America’s Got Talent or Dancing with the Stars or Big Brother. In fact, I don’t know if any of those are actually the names of the shows. I’ve seen the ads, and clips but it’s been so long since I saw any of them that I can’t swear I have the titles correct.
 
All I know is that the subject matter doesn’t interest me. I don’t care about the people who are on them. The actions are staged, so despite the times when it seems like they might be doing something vaguely exciting, I can’t get jazzed enough to watch them more than once. Still, many millions of people tune in, so they can’t be all bad. Or, can they?
 
The U.S. version of Love Island proved that yes, more bad TV can be created. I don’t know what the ratings were for LI, but they were obviously good enough for the show to last through all its episodes. I, on the other hand, did not.
 
I did not make it through episode one. Ten minutes in I deleted the recording. Or, to be more accurate, perhaps is was 19 minutes in. Don’t want to exaggerate. And I wanted to give it a decent chance before I vomited on the remote.
 
Why did I want to watch initially? At this stage of early winter, I don’t really know. I can’t think back that far. I do remember the reviews were sterling and the way they were written it seemed to have some intrigue in terms of how the couples related and hooked up with each other. Cheap entertainment. Bubble gum for the mind after a hard day at work.
 
Instead of an interesting plot, what we got was mindless flirtation, stupid conversations and gossip. Sorry, but I don’t understand the attraction.
 
I tried, I really did. I watched a second episode, but turned that one off after 9 minutes. It only reinforced my perspective. “WHY WOULD ANYONE WATCH THIS GARBAGE!”
 
People do. They have different standards. Perhaps it’s an escape syndrome, wanted to leave a boring life. But I’m not sure how a boring TV show would help in that matter.

Maybe they want to watch hard bodies in skimpy bathing suits. Even if that’s your thing, it’s still pretty repetitive if there isn’t a story.
 
I’m not sure whether LI was canceled or renewed because I don’t care. I don’t care enough to even Google it to find out. The island should sink and something with better writing and a plot should emerge. 

​The Christmas card tradition is officially decimated. It’s been dying for years, killed by the internet. Destroyed by the ability of humans to send instantaneous messages. Annihilated by Facebook. Crushed by our collective laziness. And buried by our general inability to prioritize our lives.
 
It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s certainly different for those of us who grew up annually reading the reams of handwritten cards send by friends and relatives of our parents, the cards sitting in a little basket when you came home from college or your job to spend time decompressing and flipping through who had kids, who’d moved and sadly sometimes, who had passed away.
 
That basket was full every year during the Christmas holiday. Maybe 40 or 50 cards, perhaps more.
 
When I stepped out into the “real” world, it meant creating your own tradition in terms of sending out some kind of annual end-of-the-year message or photo to encapsulate what went on in your life. I took that on in my mid-twenties, writing up a (hopefully) interesting and informative journey. Slowly, it evolved, along with my life, after marriage and kids.
 
At our peak, we probably received 70-80 cards a year. I think I clocked in at somewhere around 90 in terms of the most cards sent out for the year. Since that time, it’s been all downhill. A year after year decline.
 
Sometimes I would do a full write-up of our year, other times sending a photo with a shorter message. I tried to keep it tight, witty and worthwhile reading. It was fun, but also work.
 
After reaching that peak in cards arriving at our house, I began to monitor for my own sanity, who sent one and who didn’t and began eliminating those who didn’t send us a card from my list who I would send cards to. Thus began the simplification process.

Slow at first, then faster and faster these past few years. There was a watershed moment in the past three or four years when we got less than 20 cards. That’s when I pretty much stopped caring, though I still respond to anyone who sends us a card. That’s my current level of feeling responsible and staying in touch.

Ultimately, for those who use almost any type of social media to stay in touch with friends and family, people have photos of you and know what you’re up to these days. They don’t need a Christmas update, other than to give best wishes for the season.

That’s probably the major reason I feel no compulsion to stay with the old way of doing things. Anyone who is connected with me already has the most recent updates.
 
I still watch the mail. There is something about getting a card in the mail that stands out and says you care, and I appreciate that. Our first card has already come in for this season and I will dutifully respond over the next several weeks.

But I’m not going to lick envelopes and stamps, sign my name 81 times, then cart all the mail to the post office. No, if I have to lick and stamp 17 cards that will be more than enough.   

​Several weeks back I got a Facebook message from a childhood friend. It was unexpectedly about my dad. This friend mentioned how our father had impacted him in a positive way.

A seemingly simple thing our dad (Herm) had done helped my friend out. Herm taught him how to throw a baseball. Such a simple thing. Yet it stood out 50 years later as something that meant a lot to this next-door neighbor who grew up with us on our dead-end street.
 
As a kid, you don’t think about what your father is “like.” He’s just there. Ours built the first home we lived in from the ground up with his father and his father-in-law, our mom, and some other relatives and friends. He worked hard at his job. He was there for us three boys, wrestling with us, showing us how to use tools and work in the yard, along with basic sports skills like how to kick a football (such an important life skill; 😊).
 
At the time, he was just our dad, someone who we listened to, had fun with, and respected for the lessons he delivered. But you didn’t think about him teaching you to throw a baseball or football.
 
The friend who posted to Facebook is not the only person from my childhood who has made points about Herm. Two other friends who I’ve caught back up with as life moved along have said during conversations with me how they remembered our dad helping them out in terms of learning sports skills, and MORE IMPORTANTLY, how that made them feel more prepared and confident in what they did.
 
You don’t think about those things as a kid. Instead, you look back as an adult and realize the effect someone had on your life, how you’ve been molded. Hopefully in a good and positive way.
 
“Teaching the fundamentals” is a simple notion. Figure out the basics. Do them well. Repeat. Build from there. If you have the foundation, the rest of the home is on a strong footing.
 
Herm built the foundation not only for us three brothers, but also for other kids who lived on our street and friends who came to visit us who lived farther away. Because he was there and available and gave of his time to us, we learned skills that stayed with us long after those joyous childhood backyard football and baseball games.

Because the friends raised these points to me about Herm, it’s gotten me thinking about the impacts we have on others throughout our lives and the importance in lending a hand, sharing something we know to help the next generation with their personal growth and ability to deal with a rapidly changing landscape.
 
The little things matter. Being there matters. Teaching a youngster a valuable skill matters.
 
When you learn the basics – how to properly hold and throw a baseball or football – you grab a foothold in your small world of childhood and are better able to participate and succeed in the games you play. Sharing that knowledge freely and selflessly pays back many times over.

I need only look back 50 years to hear from three friends who our dad impacted. And to this day they remember.