Lampshade, Fabreze, quesadilla: these are words I have lost recently. No recall of them whatsoever. Later they appear again, just like always. It’s hard to cope when the word you need just won’t come out of your mouth. It’s like having a stroke, one word at a time.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “recall.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

6 thoughts on “Recall”

  1. As infants we were dependent on others for almost everything. We pretty much managed the sleeping part on our own. As we grew into physical maturity this situation changed along with us. Eventually we became directors in our own lives, and frequently, those of others. Another phase in life’s journey reminds us of our mortality. Change in the way we order our work, our days, our relationships, our medical trips and other things become more prominent but we are still “in charge.” Another, scarier, phase hits all of us in different ways. As we age, we are thrust back to dependency with recall being sometimes the most prominent symbol. If we write, a digital or print Thesaurus or a companion human to uncover sought-for words becomes indispensable. A geriatrician once told me, and she’s been proven correct many times over: “The nouns are the first to go.” We spend most efforts, in recall, unearthing nouns whose names simply elude us without help.

  2. Recall becomes a frantic search for a lost fact , word , name .
    A face peering , a voice jeering , you are on the verge of remembering the name , and then blank . Rightly said, “like stroke , one word at a time .”
    For the life of you , you can’t. You are furiously rummaging the desks, drawers , rooms , mansions , junkyards of your memory . Zilch. You scale dizzying heights of frustration , and forget other things in the process. Picking up a child from school in time , grocery list . All the time , the cogs and wheels are whirring , clicking , “what was the name ? Come on , what was his name ?”
    Recalling becomes an obsession.

  3. “Do you recall…..?” There he goes again. As we share this last part of our lives together and chat while having a lovely dinner out we amuse ourselves by talking about our memories. Fortunately for us most of ours are good memories. We have had enough of our share of bad experiences. One of the things I’ve found as I’ve gotten even older is that when people talk to me I sort of tune them out if they’re speaking about inane things. I don’t care to clutter up my mind with more bytes and chips than I already have. That way I do truly believe my memory will hold me in good stead as I grow even older. There are some very boring folks who go on and on about irrelevant material over-explaining themselves or something that happened to them. I don’t need that clutter in my head. I want to save room in my head for recalling all those positive, warm and fuzzy experiences I cherish with my family and friends to keep me company during this last phase of my life on earth.

  4. I recall the last time I lost myself. It was yesterday, looking up at the dark clouds when an airplane burst through. I saw the black and white photos that belonged to my uncle from WWII, the view from the fighter pilot’s window. This picture sits in a glass case on top of an old camera that was at his house. A sun barely glimmers over the ocean, a ship on the rough waters down below. I wonder if he were alive what he would recall.

  5. It was a beautiful Indiana June day. The sun was so bright that I remember looking at the blades of grass outside the campus dining hall and thinking they needed a mow. I was comfortably satisfied with lunch and enjoying my walk to Emory Hall where I would be teaching a group of doctoral candidates. I recall it well that summer of 1997.

  6. I recall many things from my childhood, yet many elude me—especially now when I’m trying to piece together events from my past. The thought of my mortality has been surfacing with a certain frequency in the past few months, and I’d like to leave something of my legacy behind, at least, in the written form. I’ve always thought that paper could withstand all the slings and arrows thrown at it by a person’s stream of consciousness. With this in mind, I’d like to eventually share all my joys and sorrows that led me to become who I am with my readers.

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