The title isn’t a typo.

Yes, pile filing, not pie filling.

I hoped the title might trick some recipe hounds and pie enthusiasts into reading this column.

I was trimming my nose hairs when I started wondering where I’d put a certain notebook. It was one of those miniature composition books.

That’s not so weird.

What do you think about while you’re trimming your nose hairs?

If I can’t remember something while trimming my nose hairs, I take a shower even if I just took one. A shower is an amazing memory enhancer. I’m fairly well organized, but not fastidious. I like it to look as if I’ve been working even when I haven’t been.

I didn’t need another shower, because I knew right where that notebook was. That’s because I have a system. I put things in the same place whether that place is in my office, my car, my backpack or my suitcase. That’s my filing system. It works for me.

My mother had a terrific memory. She remembered the names of everyone, although I noticed that a lot of people were named Old Whatshisname. She had memorized “The Wreck of the Hesperus” without wrecking her Hesperus in the process. I could remember the Alamo. Mother recalled the birthdays of her great aunts and uncles who had long ago stopped celebrating birthdays due to the fact that they had long ago stopped breathing. This wonderful memory that Mother possessed deserted her the instant she put something away in a good place where she’d always remember where it was. This technique was an epic failure. There are still things in those good places that have never been recovered. It’s a mystery defying solution.

I was better off memorizing bits of TV theme songs like this one from “Green Acres,” “Green Acres is the place to be. Farm living is the life for me. Land spreading out so far and wide. Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.” Or from “The Monkees,” “Here we come, walking down the street. We get the funniest looks from everyone we meet. Hey, hey, we’re the Monkees. And people say we monkey around. But we’re too busy singing, to put anybody down.” Or “The Addams Family,” “They’re creepy and they’re kooky. Mysterious and spooky. They’re all together ooky. The Addams Family. Their house is a museum. When people come to see ‘em. They really are a scream. The Addams Family.”  And, of course, from “Bonanza,” “We chased lady luck, ‘til we finally struck Bonanza. With a gun and a rope and a hat full of hope, planted a family tree. We got hold of a pot full of gold, Bonanza. With a horse and a saddle, and a range full of cattle, how rich can a fellow be?” I heard a parrot whistling the theme song to “The Andy Griffith Show,” but I digress.

My father had a machine shed that collected farm items just as an ambitious oologist gathered birds’ eggs or a keen cagophilist corralled keys.

Dad piled things in piles. That’s what we pile things into. That was his filing system of choice and it worked for him, that pile filing system.

I’d ask Dad where I might find a clevis. Clevis isn’t one of Clarence Claghorn’s boys. You’re thinking of Clovis. A clevis is a U-shaped metal piece with holes in each end through which a pin or bolt is run and used to attach an implement to a drawbar.

Dad would reply, “Look next to that bucket of rusty bolts I bought for 25 cents at Helmer’s auction eight years ago this past March. The bucket is a white plastic one, with red lettering, that once held the dog food that only the cats would eat. It’ll be in the southeast corner of the shed under the one remaining handle of that orange wheelbarrow with the flat tire that I’m planning on fixing one of these days. Be careful you don’t trip over that black plastic tile alongside it. It’s hard to see it in the dark. The light doesn’t quite reach that far.”

The clevis was right where Dad said it would be.

My parents were blessed with the ability to remember.

They told stories.

I loved hearing them.

We tell stories to explain. To understand. Stories give width to life.

Each story is a house. Every chapter a room.

Don’t put your stories away in a good place in the hopes that you’ll remember where they are.

Telling stories is a filing system for things that are much bigger than we are.

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.