Vol. 127: My stroke, my memory

What did you say your name was?

More than 50 years ago, I attended a Silva Mind Control class that yielded a valuable (albeit now obvious) lesson: Your best ideas come to you when your mind is relaxed. Ever since, I’ve carried a pocket notebook wherever I go, so as to jot down the thoughts that occur in the least likely places: on a walk, when I’m asleep, or when I’m standing at a urinal in a men’s room.

Now that I’m recovering from a stroke, that lesson has returned with a vengeance. Names and words that should be obvious have slipped my mind, but then they resurface when I least expect them. Who was Judy Garland’s daughter? What’s that casserole in our refrigerator— stuffed what? Most embarrassing: Where was I born?

“Take your time and don’t pressure yourself,” advises a list of Word Finding Strategies provided by my speech therapist, Jordyn Sales, at Good Shepherd/Penn Partners. “The more frustrated you are, the less likely you will come up with the word that you want.”

Sure enough— usually in the middle of the night— there it is: Lisa Minnelli. Stuffed peppers. Kew Gardens.

Queens runs the world

Kew Gardens came up— or, rather, didn’t come up— this month when I ran into David Harbater, a math professor at Penn. After reminding me of his name— which of course I’d temporarily forgotten— he mentioned that he came from the borough of Queens, in New York City. I told him I was from Queens, too. My parents may have moved to the Upper West Side of Manhattan when I was just nine months old, but that brief sojourn enables me to claim a connection to such Queens natives as Tony Bennett, Estée Lauder, Antonin Scalia, Mario Cuomo, Jimmy Breslin, Don Rickles, Bernadette Peters, and of course Donald Trump (all of whom, like me, got the hell out of Queens as soon as they realized where they were). You could make a case that Philadelphia has been run to some extent by Queens expatriates like Bill Marrazzo (longtime CEO of our public TV station and, before that, longtime head of Philadelphia’s Water Department), the late Babette Josephs (Center City’s longtime state representative) and the pioneering TV and civic personality Marciarose Shestack.

But when Harbater asked me, not unreasonably, what section of Queens I came from, for the first time in my life I was stumped. Of course I’ve known about Kew Gardens forever. I was one of the first babies born in the maternity wing of Kew Gardens General Hospital. I had relatives there back in the ’40s. But this time, I couldn’t get my mind around the words “Kew Gardens” until hours later.

Carrie and Miranda

That therapy sheet full of word-finding strategies contains other useful tips, like: Describe as much as you can about the mystery word; or try to use a word that means the same thing; or try to remember the first sound or letter of the word.

Last week, for example, prior to an ultrasound, the doctor asked me a question about arthritis. Half an hour later, I wanted to ask him a follow-up question, but the word arthritis eluded me. The doctor didn’t know what to make of my babbling. Then I said, “I think it sounds like artichoke.” The technician sitting nearby said, “Oh, do you mean arthritis?”

It gets worse. Last week, to my great shame, I found myself unable to remember the name of the character played by Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City and its current 20-years-after sequel, And Just Like That. This was unforgivable because my own daughter is one of the writers of both iconic TV shows. I recalled the character’s boyfriends‚ like Big and Aidan— but not the character’s own name. Only later did it come to me: Carrie Bradshaw.

Even worse, I couldn't remember the name of another key character nor the actress who played her. I finally recalled the character's name— Miranda— as well as other important details about the actress: She was an accomplished Broadway performer (won two Tonys) and a political activist who ran for governor against Andrew Cuomo. When I once expressed gratitude for the opportunity the show had provided to my daughter, she memorably replied, “We actors are nothing without the writers.” But I’m damned if I could think of her name. Once again, the answer came to me in the middle of the night: Cynthia Nixon.

A high school defeat

You may say, what's the big deal? Nowadays, we have Google to answer any question. But here the goal really isn't the information. It's to get my brain back in shape. That we do by avoiding Google and using other tools.

Besides, not everything can be found in Google. I have long functioned as a personal Google of useless sports trivia concerning both my college (Penn) and my high school (Fieldston, in New York). I can tell you the score of every varsity football game and almost every varsity basketball game from the time I entered Fieldston in 1954 until I graduated from Penn in 1964, not to mention many games before and after as well. I can even still recite the scores of our intramural league football games in junior high school.

(Pete Carrrill, the great Princeton basketball coach and my personal party-pooper in this regard, was once asked how he felt about his 250th college victory. He replied: “I don't give a hoot about the first one, nor the 100th, nor will I care about the last one. They are so meaningless anyway. A victory is to be enjoyed for a while and then forgotten, and a defeat should be reflected upon for a while and then forgotten as well.” But what did he know?)

Earlier this month, at our 65th high school reunion, I got together with Bob Liss, who was (with me) co-captain of our Fieldston basketball team. Bob asked me if I recalled the name of the school that narrowly defeated us in the final game of our senior year. Was it New Lincoln or Elizabeth Irwin? In reply, I found myself uttering words that, prior to my stroke, never would have escaped my lips: I’m not sure. Let me check the records when I’m back in my office. (It was New Lincoln.)

A ruined reputation

One more example. The other day, for a reason I’ll get to in a moment, I was thinking about an Indiana politician from my days as a newspaperman there in the ’60s. He was a farmer and businessman who represented Indiana for three terms in the U.S. Senate, largely on his reputation as the embodiment of Hoosier Republican values. When he was finally defeated in 1962 by the youthful Birch Bayh, he declared, “We're headed for socialism for sure.”

All of this I remembered, but not the Senator’s name. Then it came to me days later, again in the middle of the night: Homer Capehart.

But why, you ask, was I thinking of this man I barely knew and who has been dead for 46 years? Most likely because Capehart’s career epitomized Warren Buffett’s observation: “It takes 20 years to build a reputation and five minutes to ruin it.”

You see, during his final term in the Senate, Capehart gave a speech written by one of his aides. Capehart apparently neglected to review it in advance. The speech included a line attacking the Democrats’ policies as “akin to chaos.” Capehart read the line as “achin’ to chouse.”

Almost overnight, he became the laughingstock of the state. He may have been the father of the jukebox industry and a pioneer in record players and popcorn machines as well. But everything he had achieved, good or bad, was suddenly overshadowed by this rhetorical blooper.

I met him only once, at a testimonial dinner where Capehart— by then an ex-Senator— was one of the toasters. After his brief presentation, the master of ceremonies said, “Thank you, Senator. I’m sure everyone here agrees that your remarks were achin’ to chouse.” Everyone in the audience chuckled, except the Senator himself. Maybe he was wishing all of us one giant communal stroke?

Enjoy Dan Rottenberg’s new memoir, The Education of a Journalist: My Seventy Years on the Frontiers of Free Speech. You can also visit his website at www.danrottenberg.com