Some early things to remember, and a diversion

I can still remember my very first phone number: 437-9168. This was my number from the time I was four until the time I was almost eight. Four years. I lived in our next house for 11 years, but I cannot remember the phone number for that house. I remember that Randy Harmon, one of our neighbors, celebrates his birthday today, August 10. I have no idea why I remember Randy's birthday. I have not seen him since I was 18 years old, but the date is etched in my long term memory.

I wonder if I can recall my first phone number only because my parents probably make me recite it to them repeatedly, like we did with our kids. I have no memory of them doing this, so I am only speculating here.

To help our kids remember our phone number, Cyndi made up a song for our kids. I can't easily relate the tune here, but the lyrics were: "847-923-4905, that's my phone number you see, give me a call sometime." And it worked. They both memorized our number early, and could recite it to anyone when asked. Luckily, they never needed to use it in an emergency, but if they did, whomever asked for it would have been serenaded.

I'm trying to remember other things from my childhood that may seem inconsequential, but easily recalled from my brain files when needed. My kindergarten teacher's name was Ms. Shanko. Done. That's all I can remember. My phone number, Randy Harmon's birthday, and Mrs. Shanko. I even walked away from this for fifteen minutes.

After I wrote the word "done" my neighbor came over to ask if we'd check on another neighbor because she hadn't seen him in two days. He's dying. He lost his job, his wife, and his kids, and he decided to live the rest of his life drinking. It's been about 18 months now. His house is dark, his door is open, his mail is in the box, so our other neighbor was worried. She wanted me to knock on his door. I won't do that. I don't know if he's got weapons or anything in there. I'd rather call the police to do a wellness check. The guy's sister lives on our same street, so I agreed to knock on her door. She seemed put-off by my inquiry. It is her birthday today, she told me, and he sent her a text. She kept telling me that he was fine, but that he was dying. She seemed frustrated and tired of people asking about her brother. I'm not certain the guy is fine, but she thinks so. That's all I can do, I guess.

After that diversion, I thought for another moment and wondered if my curiosity/post is a waste of time. Here I am, sitting at my desk, waxing poetic about my phone number, a birthday, and a name, and a guy, two houses down from me, is drinking himself to death. Is it that self centered to think that my life is more important than his, given the state of his life? Am I trivial? Probably. When I originally heard the guy was drinking himself to death, I thought about "Leaving Las Vegas." I have yet to see a Las Vegas hooker drive up to his house and attempt to be the reason his life turns around. But its the same idea. He's drinking and waiting for death. He may be too far gone to repair the damage he has done. He's pickling his liver, is turning yellow from jaundice, and maybe his memory is fading.

I wonder if he remembers his first and second phone numbers, if he remembers his neighbor's birthday, and if he can recall the name of his kindergarten teacher. I'd like to ask him, but I'm afraid.