Peter and I were getting ready for bed. “I’ve lost me wallet and me keys,” he said. He patted his pockets to confirm his fears.
“You had them earlier,” I said. He loses them so often that I’m immune to his panics. “Let’s go to bed. They’ll show up in the morning.” Uncharacteristically, he gave up his search. He was as tired as I was, even thought he’d slept most of the four hour drive to Ohio.
We were there for grandson Miah’s graduation from Hocking College. The night before, eleven of us had celebrated with an excellent and jubilant dinner, followed by the ceremony Saturday morning. We ate lunch at place I’d frequented during my years at Ohio University, followed by a campus tour where I recognized only the oldest parts of campus and, later, pizza and a movie. Way more goings-on than Peter and I have in a week, much less a weekend.
Sunday morning, as we rushed to get ready to meet the family for breakfast, Peter patted his pockets again. “I’ve lost me wallet and me keys.”
“Coffee first, then we’ll look.” The strange locale, unfamiliar lodging, and hectic pace had muddled my already muddled husband even more.
At breakfast I mentioned the “losses” to Martin. He was positive Peter had them the previous evening.
“I’ll help you find them after we say goodbye to Miah,” he said. Suddenly, simultaneously, we said, ‘trackers.’ Didn’t you put one on Peter’s keychain?” Martin asked.
“Do you remember the password?” Martin was doubtful.
A TrackR™ is an inexpensive gadget I bought to supplement the very expensive GPS/watch, PAL, that Peter hates. PAL (protect and locate) helps me to find him if he decides to take another five-hour walk away from home or gets lost on a short walk. He refuses to wear it inside; so far though, he hasn’t taken it off outside. In fact, he shouldn’t be able to remove it at all. The locking mechanism — I have the “key” — is foolproof, supposedly. It is not, however, engineer proof. He can and does remove it when he gets back from walking Nobby, but often “loses” it in the house. Hence, two 50-cent-sized TrackRs, one attached to his keys, one to Nobby’s collar.
So, there we were after breakfast, Martin holding my phone, already paired with the TrackR app, as we listened for the shrill beep.
“I hear it!” Martin said.
“I hear it!” Peter said.
“Hear it, Judy?” Martin asked.
“No-o.” (The one drawback to TrackR is, I cannot hear the beep, although I can locate it with my phone.)
“Bathroom,” Martin yelled. We crowded into the tiny space, laughing because there was nothing there except tub, toilet, two wet towels…and us.
“No, out by the sink,” Martin said. Nope.
“The bed.” Peter pulled the covers up and shook them. Nothing.
“The sound is right here,” Martin said, “so close. Where is the darned thing?”
“Wait, what’re we looking for?” Peter asked.
Martin and I were dumbfounded. “Your keys. Your wallet.”
“These?” he said, holding his keys up.
“Where’s your wallet then?” Martin asked.
“Here,” Peter said. He pulled it out of his pocket. We’d never thought to check his pockets again because…well…because. When and where he found them we don’t know. We do know why he didn’t remember he’d “lost” them: he simply can’t remember anything.
It felt good to laugh uncontrollably after two-months with nothing to laugh at. Side-splitting hilarity was the perfect end to a fun-filled, celebratory weekend.
Header: Family and friends,Samantha, Kenna, Lucas, Leslie, Miah, Caitlyn, Martin, me, Peter, Mason, and Tim.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.