I'M NOT A SMART GUY REALLY. What I don't know could fill all the books in the Library of Congress and probably does. What I do know I'm glad to share, which is why some people think I'm smarter than I am. It reminds me of the line from The Great Gatsby where F. Scott Fitzgerald writes that Daisy thought Gatsby was intelligent because "he knew different things than she did." (See, right there, quoting that made me sound smarter than I am.) But the truth is I'm as dumb as the next guy when it comes to everyday things like the names of trees. But then maybe the next guy knows the difference between a sycamore and an oak.

When I was younger I knew so much more than I know now. I could tell you the model and the year of almost any car built in America between 1950 and 1970. As it drove past from 50 yards away I could identify a Chevelle from a Cutlass and a Firebird from a freakin' Camaro. I could imitate the high whiney sound of the starting motor any Chrysler, Dodge or Plymouth. From 500 yards I could tell you if the roar of the engine in the unseen distance was from a hemi or a goat. I knew that the number 442 meant Oldsmobile, 289 meant Ford and 327 was just a bored out 283 cubic inch Chevy engine. And I knew that the year of manufacture of any car was printed somewhere on the red plastic of its tail lights. You can look it up.

But I can't tell one car from another these days. Not by make or year or country of origin. That is a battle long lost. I used to feel embarrassed when I didn't recognize the brand name in stories that might mention a Suburban, a Crown Vic, or a Bronco. I remember Miatas because they remind me of jellybeans. But everything else on wheels looks like traffic. I think it was about the time that Honda became Nissan that all cars began to look alike. A Volkeswagon began to look like a Pontiac. The product was better than ever but the identity was gone. Everything became a sensible sedan. Like leaves in a forest I no longer recognized tree by tree.

But nothing makes me feel dumber than not knowing the name of the trees in front of my own house. That's a sycamore. Look at the bark. Thats a white oak (look at the rounded edges on the leaves compared to) that's a red oak. We have a cherry tree (that's a bark thing again when the cherries are gone) and we used to have a dogwood tree named after our dead dog Max. But the dogwood tree died and other than that I can't give you the name of another tree I see everyday. Ignoring the obvious? I look like a homicide detective who who can't tell you the color of his wife's eyes. Hazel, incidently. But suddenly Seymour I now know what a sycamore is and I felt like such a dope I thought I oughta tellya.