Memories

I have an amazing memory. Please, do not confuse “amazing” with “good”. One day last week a woman came into my office. We had a wonderful conversation. She asked about the dogs, how my vacation was and if I still lived on Highway 35. We laughed and exchanged hugs as she left.

I have no clue who she was.

But:

“Allo. Emil?"
"Oui, c’est moi. Qui est à l’appareil? "
"Ici Jean Dupuis. Tu es libre ce soir? "
"Non. Je dois aller à la bibliotheque. Il faut que je rends des livres pour ma mere. As-tu envie de m’accompagner? "
"Oui, d’accord. Si on ce retrouver vers six heur.”

Yes, from my eighth grade French class with Miss Colliton, I vividly remember the above conversation. It was rquired learning.

With that stimulating dialogue dancing in my pea-brain, I have spent the better part of four decades waiting to meet someone named “Emil” or “Jean Dupuis”. Sadly, the conversation's window of usefulness may be waning. While I’m not sure that I have ever had to return books for my mother to the library, it is a safe bet that I will not be required to in the future. And each day, fewer and fewer of my friends are returning books for their mothers to the library.

But, Jean and Emil, I am ready. Sadly, I’m not free this evening at 6. How about tomorrow night?