Bob shook his head at the quarterly tax papers strewn across the kitchen table. “My memory is shot. I can’t remember squat. Too many years of booze and smokes; guess I’m gitt’n what I deserve.”
Shirley leaned on the table with one hand. “Robert, you gave up all that life when you took the Lord as your Savior; that was ten years ago.”
“Like I said,” Bob reached out to pat his wife on the rear, but she moved away quickly, “all that old life is now haunting me. The Lord knows that he’s got me for all that sin. Here I am sixty two years old and my head is empty.” He nodded toward the kitchen television, the morning-show hosts were chattering. “They seem pretty sharp, maybe they can do these taxes.”
Shirley waved her arms imitating playing a violin. “You’re beginning to sound just like yer father; I’m not livin’ with that woe-is-me stuff.”
“So what’s ya gonna do, run off to yer sister’s?”
Shirley laughed. “Well the way you talk you’d never find me.”
Bob picked up his coffee cup and held it out. “Can you find the coffee pot, you suppose?”
“Yep, it right over there.” She pointed at the counter by the sink. “And, that’s part of the problem.”
“No silly, exercise. You’ve been retired for six months and you haven’t done much of anything but sit around and complain.”
“I mowed the grass.”
“You’re hopeless.” Shirley carried the coffee pot to the table and poured herself a cup and then set the carafe in front of Bob. “Do you want to improve your memory or not?” Shirley thought for a moment. “Junior mowed the grass. You went to prayer breakfast.”
“I suppose you bought one of those fancy T.V. memory courses?”
“I heard at circle about a program the youth are doing. A local pastor is coming to the church for their meeting and apparently he teaches creative thinking and memory. Doris Smith met him at conference this year and heard part of his presentation.
Bob pointed at his head. “See this head? It’s 62 years old.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doris is 70 and she says her memory is improving.”
“Doris is a flower child. She thinks she’s still at Woodstock.”
“Bob, be nice. She is an intelligent Christian who came to know Christ a bit late, kinda like you.”
“Now, you be nice.”
They both laughed and Shirley poured Bob’s cup full of coffee.
“Anyway Bob. Apparently, a great deal of the program is on brain exercise, very moderate physical exercise, and a lot of healthy living.”
“Aimed at kids.”
“Nope, Doris said that the conference group was all middle to senior age adults.”
Bob took a big gulp. “Okay, you’re telling me that all I have to do is go hear this guy and my memory will improve.”
“Now you sound like one of those commercials. I understand it doesn’t work that way. But, according to Doris, by following along with some suggestions, your memory actually does improve, but it’s not an overnight solution.”
“Okay, so I listen to this yay-who, and follow some expensive book of rules and maybe I can remember where I put my boots by looking at my elbow.”
Shirley extended her hands toward Bob. “Honey, remember a couple of years ago when you decided to pick up the fiddle again? You actually play pretty well now. Good enough to play in the gospel group. What did you do?”
“I practiced till my fingers bled.”
“How about when you did that part from the ‘Last Supper’ during Easter?”
“Rehearsal every night for weeks.” Bob wiped the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I know, like we told the kids, anything worth having you have to work for. I suppose the same goes for memory?”
“Uh, huh.” Shirley leaned back in her chair.
“Well, did ol’ Doris give you any hints about some of the program? Something to help me with these tax papers?”
“Yup, one good one.”
Bob raised his cup. “And what might that be?”
“Turn off the T.V.”
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