County: (n) a part of a state
Sometimes I’m baffled, and even amused, by the things I remember.
For some reason my brain favors certain topics or bits and pieces of trifle that float by, to retain, as if memorizing a secret code during wartime.
For instance, the other day, I realized I could sing my entire high school Alma Mater. So you will know that I’m not some sort of sentimental weirdo, I had not thought about that song since I was sitting in the bleachers after the last football game we lost.
But there it was—word-for-word, tone-for-tone, syllable-for-syllable, and would you believe?—concluding with a burst of emotion.
It was bizarre.
I also can remember my telephone number from when I was a young boy (but have to look on my cell phone to recite my present one.)
My social security number is embroiled in my brain as if terrified to leave, under fear of governmental punishment.
And for some reason unknown to me, I remember that I grew up in Delaware County.
I don’t know why I remember that.
Maybe it’s because the county seat of Delaware County was a town called Delaware. (Now, isn’t that so original?)
And I probably only traveled to Delaware a half-a-dozen times in my youthful life, but I can tell you the names of the two high schools that served the community.
It is so wacky.
I now need a woman with a British accent to give me directions on where to go, while simultaneously my brain protects the trivial that has no pursuit.