I am rapidly losing all my nouns.
Nouns — according to what I remember from Martha Clouse’s English class at Hauser High School more than 60 years ago — are “the names of persons, places or things.”
“Proper nouns” are the ones we capitalize, such as the given name of a person — John or Mary or Jamal or whatever. “Common nouns” are the ones we don’t capitalize — generalized names such as “house” and “dog” and “mountain.”
Nouns gradually started hiding inside my brain shortly after I turned 65. Now, more than a decade later, days come when they seem to be stuck somewhere between my forehead and my tongue.
When I have a few seconds to think, I usually can dislodge them; but in the heat of the moment, in the middle of a conversation, they can be as elusive as truth at a political rally.
The proper nouns began hiding first, replaced by the phrases “what’s-his-name” and “what’s-her-name.”
Then the common nouns started melding into the words “whatchamacallit” and “thingamabob” and “dooflop.”
I now occasionally come forth with sentences such as “Old what’s-his-name came over and gave me a thingamabob for my whatchamacallit.”
If the person I am speaking to is under 60, he or she usually responds, “What?!”
If the person I am speaking to is past 65, he or she might nod knowingly and inquire, “Did the thingamabob fit your whatchamacallit? What’s-his-name gave me the same thing and it hurt my whatchamacallit so much I had to have what’s-her-name mail it back to what’s-the-place over by where-ever.”
When I have time to concentrate for a few seconds, I usually come up with the noun. But when instant recall is required, such as when a clerk surprises me as I wander around store aisles trying to remember what I came to buy, I come out with sentences such as, “I need a whatchamacallit for my dooflop.” (I find this can cause the clerk to take a step back and reach for their cellphone. Occasionally, the police are called, but not often, thank goodness.)
The doctor tells me I do not seem to be moving into full-blown dementia — that my problem is quite common among people in my age group. He is patient when I tell him my whatchamacallit hurts or that my dooflop was caught in the door and was badly bruised. Eventually, I suppose, he will need to have me point to my ailments and groan.
My kinder friends suggest all of this is just a natural part of aging.
They equate my brain to a computer and surmise seven decades of information storage is just overwhelming my hard drive. One lifelong friend was kind enough to tell me to be thankful my brain is not as empty as it was when I was a teenager.
Maybe some smart researcher will find a way to purge and reboot my hard drive, or offload enough information to a memory stick that I can sort the rest in a reasonable amount of time.
Getting old is not easy. I just try to begin every day being thankful I still have most of my verbs, adjectives and adverbs. This enables me to describe the whatchamacallits and tell how they are moving. With that, all those smart aleck, young what’re-their-names can sort it out.
Bud What’s-his-name is an occasional whatchamacallit for this dooflop. He may be reached by dooflop at budwhat’[email protected]. Send comments to [email protected].
Bud What’s-his-name is an occasional whatchamacallit for this dooflop. He may be reached by dooflop at budwhat’[email protected]. Send comments to [email protected].
