As I’ve grown older, I have begun to find it harder and harder to remember things.

Sometimes, I find myself repeating a story to my wife, kids, family, friends and co-workers and then see the look on their faces that tells me they’ve heard the story more than once. And like many, I often walk into a room and stop and think, “Why did I come in here?”

I’ve also been known to search for my keys, wallet, glasses or other things and find them right where I left them.

For years, I struggled with the names of family members. Since three of them have similar names — Terry, Sherry and Mary and two others are twins — I have plenty of excuses for that, at least in my book.

But when I used to call our dog Colin instead of Gizmo, I knew I was headed downhill, especially when I still did it long after he moved out of the house. Colin, not Gizmo. Those things have been going for quite a few years now.

If you were to ask my wife, she would tell you my memory was never really very good since I’ve always struggled to remember the day we were married back in April 1988. And I have never been much better at remembering her birthday, which falls on the same day as that of Seymour’s Rock and Roll Hall of Famer. I can still, however, remember her telling me John Mellencamp’s birthday was just a few days away. I would say “so what” without putting two and two together and coming up with four.

I’ve always chalked up my memory lapses growing older.

I now, however, sometimes find myself struggling to remember the name of simple items, such as a screwdriver, a coffee pot, a paint brush or the thermostat.

That’s something I can remember my dad struggling with long before he grew old. In fact, anyone who spent time with him when he was working on a vehicle in the garage will remember this cleaned-up version of a simple conversation.

“Bring me that ‘wrench,’” he would say in reference to some tool he needed.

“What wrench?” we would answer.

“Y0u know that three-quarters thangy,” he would said.

“What three-quarters thangy?” we would answer.

Then he would throw out some choice words and rant and rave before going to get it himself.

“I guess I‘ve got to do everything myself,” he would mutter.

My wife tells me my inability to remember the simple things in life is a sign I have might be in the early stages of dementia.

I prefer the explanation my brother talked about during a family gathering at his home a couple of weeks ago. For the record, he’s a year younger than me but is having the same problem trying to remember the names of simple things.

I am not giving him credit for the theory because I am sure he’s not the first one to come up with it. It does make some sense in my mind for what that’s worth anymore. If for some reason, Sherry, oops, I mean Terry, came up with it — sorry for not giving you the credit.

Here it goes.

Similar to a computer, your brain can only hold so much information. Once it’s full, it has to find room for everything you keep jamming into it, so it starts kicking random things out.

Unfortunately, some of those random things are much more important than others, so it leaves you with a lot of trivial items that rarely come in handy for anything and clueless with the names of other things.

What bothers me most about the issue is I seem to have no problem remembering the big things that occurred throughout my life.

For instance, I can still remember the assassination of JFK on Nov. 22, 1963. I was in first grade and our bus driver told us that afternoon. I also remember the day President Richard Milhous Nixon resigned. It was Aug. 9, 1974, and I was getting on a bus in Rome, Italy, when our German bus driver told me and everyone on the Ben Davis High School band trip we didn’t have a president. Notice a theme here. I don’t take many bus rides.

I also remember July 20, 1969, the day man first stepped on the moon. I was at my grandparents’ home in Scottsville, Kentucky. They were convinced the world was coming to an end because man had no business going there.

This 12-year-old believed them — they were his grandparents for goodness sake — and was glued to their black and white TV until I saw my grandmother chase a cat out of the house with a broom. That seemed to the add to the somberness of the occasion to learn my grandmother disliked cats that badly.

Later that day, some of my cousins and I went off to play softball. I drew a spot in the outfield near a cemetery. My first thought was if the world was coming to an end, at least I wasn’t too far from a cemetery.

I could go on telling stores like that forever.

On the other hand, my wife doesn’t seem to have that kind of memory, especially when it comes to past events unless — of course — I screwed up.

Ask her about the time I took our Neal McCoy concert tickets out of her purse years ago and left them at home. She can tell you all about it. Especially since she found out about them being gone as we were finishing up our preconcert meal at a Columbus restaurant. That was about about an hour and a half before the show was to start at Little Nashville Opry. It was quite — I mean quiet — the drive back to Brownstown to get the tickets and then on to Nashville.

That incident reminded of why my dad was reluctant to ever get into my mom’s purse. That’s a tip I have passed on to my two sons. Stay out of the purse even if they asked you to get something out of it. Take the purse to them and let them get it.

Aubrey Woods is editor of The Tribune. Send comments to [email protected].