There are those who lament that the history of the country is being forgotten. They are correct, it is being forgotten, but the forgetting of the past will be resolved in the fullness of time when, as the scientists are happy to tell us, Western children already born will live to the ripe old age of 150 or so. I can make this prediction in full confidence knowing that I am in the process of forgetting a good deal of my own past, as may be seen from my wife’s reaction when she recounts a recent trivial event and asks, always with feigned astonishment, “You don’t remember that?”

I remember well when as a lad
I climbed the front yard tree
Aware the freedom that I had
To see what I could see
The vacant lot where I played ball
The house where I did live
My memories complete recall
But now a battered sieve
Oh I recall things of the past
The stand my father made
The table top that seemed so vast
Where I sold lemonade
And I recall the whole darned cast
Of the Johnny Carson show
I watched it all from first to last
And sad to see him go
Apart from that the past is mist
Dim shadows faintly seen
I fail to see why some insist
That mem’ry must be keen
I do all right as I sit here
Unbound by passing time
Thesaurus and a mouse quite near
To make of life a rhyme