Trying to Keep It All

Now that I can no longer go out to the health club (dizziness), I'm having a bit of a problem about something that, in some ways, seems silly.

When do I practice all the 231 poems I've memorized?

See, I used to have batches that I did out at the club while I was exercising--a M-W-F set, a T-Th-Sat set. And there were longer ones I rehearsed out there every day (Longfellow's "Song of Youth," E. E. Cummings' "My Father Moved Through Dooms of Love," etc.).

I can't easily just transfer them to home, for I already had sets I do here every day.

Oh, the things we do to ourselves!

I mean, no one has forced me to memorize 231 poems. I did it to myself. I began back when I was teaching middle schoolers in Aurora (I memorized the poems I gave them to memorize), but soon I was adding, adding, adding. I would get bored, say, with "The Road Not Taken" (which the kids were learning), so I'd learn a different one by Frost. And Millay. And Shakespeare. And ...

You see?

I retired from teaching in the spring of 2011. Nearly nine years have ensued. And I haven't really slowed down. I've kept adding, adding, adding. Like an alcoholic: Just one more!

Right now, in fact, I'm working on a fifteen-stanza gem by Auden, "As I Walked Out One Evening"; as of this morning, I have four stanzas "down" pretty well. (Link to the poem.) It appeared on Writer's Almanac the other day, and both Joyce and I loved it so much that, well, I had no choice, did I?

So what about those health-club poems?

A little explanation ... I get up about 5:30, Mon-Sat (Sunday's a different story--don't get me started). Don't be too impressed with the early rising: I'm back in bed, reading, about thirteen hours later.

Lately, I've been snapping awake about 5:15 ... and guess what I do then? I start running those health-club poems through my head, one at a time, till 5:30--and keep on keeping on as I go downstairs to unload the dishwasher, etc. By the time I head back upstairs, I've usually finished them (if not, I mumble the remaining ones over at the coffee shop in the afternoon).

So, my days are now chockablock with memorized poems. Why I'm adding another one is nothing more than a certain sign of addiction.

Joyce is pretty much the only one who hears them, now and then (not all: that would be grounds for you-know-what). But when a poem fits what we're doing or talking about, well, I fit it in. She never seems to mind. (The definition of True Love.)

And my grandsons, now and then, don't mind hearing "Casey at the Bat" or "Jabberwocky." But I don't push it.

I suppose there's some kind of neurological benefit to all of this--keeping my memory "woke," I guess. But I haven't seen a lot of evidence. I can't remember some of the damnedest things--quick-recall stuff that used to be as simple for me as bending over to tighten a shoelace.

Which ain't no longer simple.

Anyway, I don't suppose I'll stop until the Grim Reaper arrives at our door and says, "Now that is just enough!"