I used to have an excellent visual memory. Not eidetic, but I could easily visualize words and phone numbers. This skill made me a star in spelling bees. I found it useful on tests as well: I could remember how paragraphs looked on a textbook page, including subheadings. I didn’t think anything of it.
I thought everyone’s memory worked this way, until I met someone who remembered events as if they were filming a movie: every scene, every bit of dialog, captured accurately in sequence, frame by frame. I was astounded and envious. That’s when I realized I remember events in snapshots. I can’t remember what came before what unless the end of a story is emotionally charged, like a breakup, a bad driving error, or some form of public humilation (like forgetting my speech at a Toastmasters competition).
Sadly for me, somewhere in my 50s, my visual memory skill deserted me. The loss was gradual but it was a fast gradual, like how objects in the rear view mirror recede when you’re going 75 mph. Now I can’t remember phone numbers unless I dial them frequently (in my defense, who does that anymore?). I’m really bummed that I can’t spell a word by how it looks. Double sad for me, no other memory skill has replaced what I lost.
I can hear you saying, but Carol, don’t be such a downer, you can develop new memory skills. Audio for instance. Make sound your friend. I’d like to, but sorry, I never had an audio memory for anything but Monkee songs. Others of you are cautiously saying, but Carol, have you heard of this thing called a memory palace? Yes, I have. First of all, palace? Dumb name. Where would I have developed any connection to a palace? Second, I can visualize my childhood home fairly accurately. Up the concrete steps, through the dark green screen door (don’t slam it!). Piano to the right, Dutch Village TV and Hi-Fi console record player/radio to the left. White fireplace, afghan covered couch. My high school paintings on the walls. Dining room barely big enough to hold the table, Persian rug, bay windows. Kitchen, formica topped table, window curtains with blue and green pompoms, phone table, chalkboard, black rotary phone (Alpine 4-67XX). Stainless steel sink (unwashed glass holding dregs of Dad’s Metamucil), dishwasher that never worked, Grandma’s sewing machine.
I could go on. The problem isn’t remembering my home. It’s remembering what words and numbers I put in the rooms. I know what the piano looks like down to the sticky keys but what word did I attach to the piano? No clue.
You could say this is just age. You could say it’s the onset of dementia. You might be right on both counts.
When I was young, I was privately haughty when I encountered classmates or friends who couldn’t remember how to do things that were second nature to me. I understand now that there are many ways to remember, and I was good at only one.