My family has long told the following story about my father, and at his recent funeral, I included it in my eulogy.
It seems that my dad was visiting his parents in Texas, and borrowed their car to drive to the mall. Once he had finished shopping, he returned outside to the enormous parking lot and realized that he had forgotten where he had parked.
It's a common enough story, but my dad was both the very image of the absent-minded professor, and also far from automotively inclined. A mall security guard recognized his confusion, and tried to help him narrow down the possibilities.
"What make is the car?" asked the guard.
"I don't know." A reasonable answer for someone borrowing an unfamiliar vehicle.
"Okay then, so what colour is it?"
"I... I'm not sure."
"Sir, you are on your own."
My dad eventually found the car after an exhaustive search for the little disability wheelchair icon on the licence plate. Turns out it was a navy Buick.
Naturally, the story has been an endless source of amusement to the rest of us, and not one that we feared repeating.
Which brings us to today.
Walking out of my class at the College this morning, I realized that, not only had I forgotten where I had parked, but also the make, model, and colour of the car I had driven up the hill. You see, we traded our truck to a friend for her moving day, and borrowed her small car in its place.
The College's parking lot isn't that large, so it only took me three tries of the key before locating the copper Chevy.
And I'm not even a professor. Sheesh.