Some of you were kind enough to notice that I didn't write a column last week. There were even some especially thoughtful people who called or wrote to make sure I was OK.

Thanks, but the truth is we age-advantaged folks are never entirely OK. We groan and ache. We worry a lot. We make doctor's appointments. And we forget where we are supposed to be. And when.

That was the situation last week. At the time I had allotted myself for writing this column, I was speeding -- yes, this is a confession -- up I-55 toward St. Louis where my wife had a doctor's appointment.

We had heard that you could get to St. Louis in an hour and a half from Cape Girardeau, but it always took us a lot longer. Last week we proved it could be done.

I don't recommend it. In the first place it's against the law. In the second place it's dangerous. In the third place we were not in the fastest vehicle on the road. Several times as we rushed northward we were passed -- once by a semi. I didn't know they could go that fast.

... Hmmm. ...

Where was I?

Oh, the memory thing. My wife plainly reminded me on the morning of the appointment that we had to be in St. Louis at such-and-such a time. I even wrote it down. Unfortunately, the write-yourself-a-note system of memory aids has never worked for me, not even when my mind was sharp as a tack. You see, no one reminds me to read my notes.

Several years ago I bought one of those electronic organizers, the kind that stores names, addresses, telephone numbers and appointments. It was small enough to fit in my shirt pocket, so I could have it with me at all times. I could set an alarm to go off to remind me of appointments coming up in a few minutes. I thought this would be the cat's meow.

Then one day I was on my way to a meeting when the car started making this funny noise. I looked to see if any red lights were flashing on the dashboard display. I pushed buttons. I pulled levers. The noise wouldn't go away.

Fearing that the car might be ready to implode -- I think that's built into some models, and it costs extra -- I veered from my destination and headed straight for the dealer's service department.

This particular dealer took a triage approach to service, much like the emergency room of the hospital. A man in a white coat (again, like the hospital) met me at the service-department door. There was already a long line of cars waiting to be fixed. Now I was getting worried about missing my meeting.

When the fellow in the white coat started inquiring about the problem, I tried to explain that this noise had started while I was driving down the street, but I couldn't find anything wrong and, except for the noise, the car ran just fine.

The service technician began to look and listen. He crawled under the steering wheel and tried to find the source of the noise under the dash. When he got out, he looked at me rather strangely.

Oh, no, I thought, the whole front end, engine and all, has to be replaced.

The service guy just kept looking at me. I got a little uncomfortable. Finally, he pointed at my chest. I didn't understand.

"I think the noise is coming from you, not the car," he said, somewhat hesitatingly.

I looked down. Sure enough, the appointment gizmo had been screeching its lungs out trying to get my attention so I wouldn't be late for the meeting that I was already on my way to.

That night I put the gizmo in a drawer. I still have it. I know, because about every March 7 at 11:55 a.m. it starts beeping at me. Every year I get to the point of calling for help before I remember it's just the appointment gizmo.

Here's the worst part: I've forgotten how to turn the darn thing off. I guess it's the closest thing to a perpetual-motion machine I'll ever see.

Or hear.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.