FAMILY MATTERS
When it comes to faulty memory, don't point finger at me
By Ka'ohua Lucas
The boys in my family always complain about my faulty memory.
"Don't ask Mom," the 12-year-old will say. "She can't remember."
True.
I can't remember that the biggest player in soccer was an English goal keeper who was 6-feet-3 and weighed 364 pounds. Or that Joe Montana was voted MVP in three Super Bowls: 1982, 1985 and 1990.
Or that a St. Bernard by the name of Barry saved more than 40 people in his 12-year career in the Swiss Alps. Or that "South Park, Longer & Uncut" is the animated movie that contains 399 swear words and 128 offensive gestures.
I mean, really, who cares?
As far as I'm concerned, there is no space in my mind for trivia. I am the keeper of information that helps the family unit run smoothly, with few glitches.
One morning — as with any other morning — my youngest was scrambling around the house in search of a misplaced item. His older brother caught a ride to school with a friend. I was trying to clean up the breakfast dishes.
Dad was running out the door.
"Come on, Son," he hollers from the lanai. "Let's go, or you're going to be late to school."
Meanwhile, our youngest is darting around the house in search of his missing shin guard.
"Mom!" he wails from his room. "Where are my shin guards? I can only find one."
"Did you look in the hamper, under your bed, in the washer, in Dad's truck, in your dresser?" I spout off a checklist, while disposing of a papaya rind.
"I did! I did! I did! And I can't find it!"
"Don't you REMEMBER where you left it last?"
My husband is in his truck gunning the engine and tooting the horn.
"Grab your backpack and jump into the truck," I told my son. "I'll look for your shin guard and bring it to school. OK?"
This seemed to pacify him.
He flung open the truck door, slammed it shut and waved good-bye as they sped away.
Just as I finished wiping down the kitchen counter, I heard the truck return.
I knew from past experience that the driver must have forgotten something.
I looked around the living room and spied his black leather pair of Rockports on the floor.
I snatched them up and ran to the picture window just as he crawled out of the truck.
Tapping lightly on the picture window, I held up his shoes and mouthed the words, "Did you forget something?"
He made an indistinguishable motion and wobbled toward the door.
"Did you forget these, Lovey?" I asked, handing the shoes to him.
"No comment," he said as he limped back to the truck.
As he reversed out of the driveway, I thought of an 'olelo no'eau:
A! Like aku la me kama'a o Keawe. (Ah! Like Keawe's sandals.) It recalls the servant of chief Keawe, who looked everywhere for his master's sandals before finding them on a string around his own neck.
Reach Ka'ohua Lucas at Family Matters, 'Ohana section, The Advertiser, P.O. Box 3110, Honolulu, HI 96802; fax 525-8055; or at ohana@honoluluadvertiser.com.
