Either my memory is failing or my brain is overtaxed. I suffer from CRS syndrome – can’t remember squat. My wife, Hun, points this out with ease. Forgetfulness surfaces when I’m charged even a menial assignment.
“Honey, please get some milk and eggs. I’m heading to the office. Write yourself a note,” she added.
“Aw, come on, any fool can remember to buy milk and eggs,” I answered. “I’ll be back in 30 minutes.”
Maggie, my 7th grader, and I hopped in the car for the errand. We stopped at a sporting goods store en route and browsed for an hour. I should have known better than to make the detour but she’s fun company.
Three hours later we were in the back yard target shooting when Hun arrived.
“Just what are you two doing?” she scolded.
“I’m turning Maggie into Annie Oakley. Check out the soda can. She’s a great shot.”
Silence. “You bought her a BB gun?”
Hun glared, ignoring Maggie, her eyes focusing on me instead. “What are you thinking?”
Suddenly I was the target. She wanted an explanation. I’d better invent one, quick.
“Dad got me a BB gun when I was 12,” I said. “I watched Clint Eastwood westerns all the time. Learning to shoot is a rite of passage for a kid. Maggie will develop a new skill, self-confidence, and learn to respect firearms. Maybe she’ll even make the Olympic Team.”
I dug deep referencing the Olympic Team. It was admittedly weak but I had no time to think. We had enough of a challenge hitting a stationary soda can. Unfortunately my lack of thinking resulted with dumb rationale. Ready, fire, aim…my mouth ran amuck while the brain froze.
Hun stared coldly without flinching. Both hands rested on her hips. Her posture reminded me of a gunslinger preparing to draw. But she was weaponless except for her next question.
“Did you get milk and eggs?”
Whups. I put away the rifle and scrambled to the store muttering to myself…milk and eggs…milk and eggs…get milk and eggs… I returned within 20 minutes, parked, and walked through the backyard gate. Hun lay prone on a blanket aiming the BB gun. She focused on a line-up of cans perched in front of a dirt pile, fired, and re-cocked the rifle without looking at me.
“Did you get butter?” she asked.
“I thought you said milk and eggs?”
“I meant butter. And while you’re at it, get more ammo.”
Next time I’ll just write down my tasks lest I forget. I had better remember the direction I’m going to avoid a shoot-out at the OK Corral.