Well, before I married Miss Bonnie Belle Carter and began rooming with her, my roommate was one Robert Michael Norris, of Severna Park, Maryland, a French major. Miss Kirkeby, never heard them. Miss Kirkeby was the stereotypical befuddled academician, completely involved in her subject and totally oblivious to everything else. One day she expounded, in a voice that sounded like equal parts of Bette Davis, John Kennedy, and Clint Eastwood, about a new song she had, alas, heard on the radio. Remember these were days when Guglielmo Marconi was a pup, eight- track was a glimmer on the musical reproductive horizon, and a CD was something you bought at the bank.
Memory is a strange thing.
It can be triggered by almost anything. Those little neurons begin to spark and ganglia get excited and the next thing you know, you are thinking about college professors long departed. Or you set bolt-upright in bed, your pajamas drenched in sweat, your breath coming in short, painful gasps and your heart is beating so fast that if it had wings it would fly out of your chest. The terror of the night fades quickly and under oath you could not recall what frightened you, let alone unearth the memory which provoked it. Someone walks by and you catch a faint aroma of perfume, or the breeze suddenly shifts and the fragrance of spring flowers caresses your face.