A tasteful memory.

There’s an alarming vein of memory loss running through my mother’s side of the family. I suppose it could be worse, my father had heart disease and Parkinson’s. The memory thing is perhaps just as worrisome and probably more eminent. Fortunately, my mother’s family also has the sense of humor to deal with it. Perhaps a story or two to illustrate.

Several year’s ago my mother’s older sister was about at the stage my mother is now. She was still able to communicate well and function in public, she was just quite forgetful, to the point of seemingly not being able to form new memories. My mother had been to lunch with my aunt, and I was asking about the experience. She replied, “Jody is doing well but she repeats herself about ten times in a twenty minute conversation.” My mother paused and said, “Have I told you this story before”? “Well, yes”, I replied, “but I told Amy that you had told me the story about Jody six or seven times”. Amy replied, “that’s the third time you’ve told me that story”. Painful shit and humor make such natural partners.

The other story happened just a year ago. I was talking to my mother on the phone and she mentioned that she was reading a book called The Fifty Most Important Movies of all Time. “Cool”, I said, “let’s see if I can guess some”. I got one or two but, not knowing the list ended in 1972, I did poorly. Five minutes later my mother said, “did I tell you about this book I’m reading?”…. And then she marveled that “you know them all!” I know some of you might be a little appalled that I would find this hysterical but, trust me, it’s the way she raised me.

Memory is a slippery thing. I joke, but not really, that if you would like the plot line of any given sitcom from the 60’s or 70’s (including the memorable “Hamlet Musical” episode of Gilligan’s Island) then I’m your guy. If you want to know about the common diseases of aging dogs and cats then, likewise, I’m probably dependable, or at least I know what book to open. If you want to know what I ate for lunch yesterday, the odds get considerably longer. I suppose inane things might be the first to go, but I can’t really count on all the important things either. Sometimes it’s almost like a crap shoot. Seems like it would be more predictable.

Occasionally, I can conjure vivid and important memories seemingly at will. I have a particular memory of the first time I ever felt the overwhelming sense of dread and hopelessness of depression. I was probably about seven or eight years old, standing in a bedroom in the Barnes’ house. (Barbara Barnes was watching me while I was out of school for the summer.) It was a summer morning outside, sun shining, birds chirping. The floor of the room was strewn with pieces of an Erector Set. I was a little kid in the summer. What the hell reason did I have to be depressed? Yet there it was, descending like a black out curtain. If I had known what it was and how often it would descend, how much a part of my life it would become, I might have collapsed into a whimpering heap. Instead I went outside to play. Innocence is bliss.

I worry sometimes about my sense memory as well. It was never that easy for me to pluck a wine from my mind’s eye, mostly I could remember how it made me feel. And really, isn’t that even better? Still, if you’re in a tasting exam you need the tools to tell a Burgandy from a Bordeaux. A Chinon from a Beaujolais. A Barolo from a Barbaresco? Probably not in this lifetime. I go more on general impressions rather than specific aromas, on structure more than nose, gut feelings more than ponderings. Gut feelings more than ponderings?, I hear you say. All you do is ponder. Everything. Perhaps, but when I’m searching for a right answer to a blind wine, I go with first impressions. Inevitably, I second guess myself, but I try not to change my first response unless I am dead certain. First impressions win over pondering, in this specific case, almost every time.

Or do they? I’m reading that last paragraph a couple (two) days later and I find myself in some disagreement with, myself. I think it’s a little grayer than that. These days, with a constant stream of input overwhelming our senses and keeping us at high alert every waking moment, in a state of fight or flight until the nerve endings are frayed and twisted like grotesque caricatures of their former selves, no longer able to transmit any useful or healthy data but simply sending out impulses as quickly as synapses allow, creating a sort of neurological V-fib until… Shit, where was I? Oh yeah, first impressions in an age of ceaseless input is a risky proposition. Best find a quiet place and ponder awhile.

Back to something somewhat wine related; what is sense memory and how does it affect us. I asked my sommelier friend Jason if he kept a memory of all the great wines he had tasted and he said “sure”, as if it should be a self evident kind of thing. I envy him in some ways, it must be nice to conjure up past wines while contemplating the glass in front of you. I have better luck with structural elements, acidity helps me more than specific aromas when trying to identify a wine. Tannins more than palate. Another part of me feels a touch of pity for anyone that can’t just turn off the switch and vicariously enjoy what’s in the glass. (I’m looking at you Bell.) I feel an equal sadness for my guitar wielding friend Bryan, who is incapable of listening to a song without dissecting how to play it. Sometimes I find it best to just let go and enjoy, perhaps just that touch of first impression that says the wine is good, followed by enough of a ponder to know that a longer ponder would be uncalled for. Enjoy the song, the wine, the view, the conversation, the fellow human being, because they are enjoyable.

Wrap up:

I read back over this because, and this is true, I had forgotten what the original subject was. I swear, you can’t make this stuff up. I’ll part with another memory related observation; I’ve been seeing a lot of you around the tasting rooms, restaurants, and bars in the area. I wish I could remember each and every name and face but it’s just not feasible. It seems every new memory needs to kick an old memory out at this point. Give me a gentle reminder and it’ll probably all come back. Or we’ll just form some new memories that may or may not stick. As I said, importance doesn’t always seem to trump minutiae on the old memory shelf. The fact that a few of you actually seem to enjoy reading these ravings and ramblings continues to delight and amaze me. I look forward to more years of sharing a new glass and remembering wines past. It’s sure to be memorable.

Cheers, Jerry.