What Now?

| December 2, 2018 | 0 Comments

Lost and Found!

Here’s how I remember the German wood-carver who, decades ago, knocked on our door: sullen and craggy, middle-aged but bent beneath his over-flowing backpack, not even trying one or two words of English. But his mission was clear: will we buy his carvings? Well, he wasn’t exactly unpleasant, and we were surely new to Darmstadt, where the U. S. Air Force was “hosting” us, and wishing at least to be pleasant, we invited him to display his wares.

His prices were right, his artistry and collections rugged, dramatic, whimsical, colorful. We became his new customers, and ‘til now, we continue to cherish, use and display his work.

Let’s discuss our wooden letter opener – our first buy, from the German wood carver of long ago. Yes, our letter opener had a silly face, a big nose, and what might be a smirky grin – though I preferred to consider it a grin of appreciation for his new home with us. One thing’s for sure; he not only exemplified the woodcarver’s ability and artistry, he’s been completely useful all these years.

A few weeks ago, he disappeared. Could you see me? I turned the kitchen upside down. Knowing full well he was never anywhere but the kitchen, I still turned the rest of the condo inside out. Nope. No! This guy was not going to be gone! Garbage? Yes: I frantically combed through every box and bag. I opened open envelopes. I “squooshed” into tin cans. Finally, finally, he emerged! I guess I imagined it, ecstatic to be home.

That was day one. The next day, during one of our sunny, lovely days, I “toodled” off to Balboa Park with Fen, our poodle-ish, Bijon-ish “Mr. Entitled,” for a totally ordinary run-around. And yes, we did, indeed, run, and at the end of a particularly long, four block expanse of lush, green lawn, we finally took a deep breath, and I dug into my pocket to get my keys back into action for returning home. Except, my keys weren’t there.

They appeared not to be anywhere. Frantic, I combed every inch of the run. Frantic, I found nothing. Then, I further frantically located the park office that deals with frantic people. A sympathetic park lady assured me that nobody had turned in my keys, tho’ she’d be on the lookout and call me as asked. I took Fen home. I went back to the park. Inch by inch, I repeated my tour. I went home again. I called the park lady. Yet again, trekked back to that lovely lawn. And this time, the third time, there, right there, nestled in the grass, were my keys. Twinkling in the sun. How did I miss them twice? Never mind, let’s just cut to …

Ahh, to today: in this era of big, bad Trump, when it’s hard to think about anything – or anyone else to rave and rant about, I still treasure my good news: From the filled-to-the brim garbage bags in our building, to that four-block expanse of a Balboa Park lawn, I, with amazing perseverance and single-minded determination, found, found our silly, but long-treasured letter-opener, and my most essential keys. Hey, I’m here if you need me!


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