Where was the last place you had it?” my husband asks each time.

That question irks me each time because if I knew where the last place was, would I not go there, retrieve said item, and never admit losing it in the first place? I endure the question and my embarrassment for having lost track of something yet again since right after he asks the question, he begins looking. He searches methodically, the way he does everything, focusing intently on one thing at a time. What a concept! Need I add that my husband always puts his keys back on the dresser? I do try to keep track of things and can be highly organized, but usually obsessed with packing as much into a day as possible, I overschedule, dash, and dart. I am proof that multitasking is overrated.

This is not a new issue I can blame on aging. Months after we married, I lost my paycheck. Direct deposit had not been invented. After hunting for it and knowing I had to confess, I waited until I was leaving for work and my husband was in the bathroom.

“I’ve got to leave now, but I have to tell you, I don’t know where my paycheck is.”

He could only talk through the door and before he could pose what would become his signature question, I was backing out of the driveway. That evening he revealed that he had stayed home until he located my paycheck---between the towels in the linen closet!

“Oh, yes! I was putting away laundry and had it in my hand.”

Fast forward three decades to one December 21st when a woman identifying herself as ‘Cathy, Manager of The Dollar Tree’, called my home just as we were heading out.

“Are you Lillian?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Do you ever shop at the Bethel Park location?”

“Rarely, why?” 

“Well, what is your address?”

I recited it while thinking this could be a scam. Having answered her three questions correctly, she continued,

“We have your debit card here. It has been in our safe for several weeks—we thought you would call. When you didn’t, I looked you up in the White Pages; we figured you might need it for Christmas.”

I then remembered my cardholder popping open there and the half dozen cards going airborne. I thought I retrieved them all, but somehow the bright orange one got away. My tone changed and thanking her profusely, I promised to be there that afternoon. Berating myself en route, my husband interjected,

“It must have slipped under something where you couldn’t see it.”

On December 31st (that’s 10, count ‘em, 10 days later) while at work I went to get something in my wallet. Not there! I rifled through my coat pockets and looked around where I keep my purse… nothing! Ursula, my co-worker, tried having me mentally retrace where I had been and when I had last used it, etc. This must be a universal practice, but I pretty much shut down and felt physically sick. I prayed to Saint Anthony, first apologizing for messing up again so soon and stating upfront that if he never wanted to help me again, I would understand, but I was unabashedly begging for his help. After several hours of self-deprecating misery, I called home and said,

“Well, for my grand finale of this year, I lost my whole wallet.”

There was a moment of silence and a slight groan and then THE question:

“Where was the last place you remember having it?”

I knew that was coming and responded,

“I have no idea. Shall I just go home with Ursula?”

“I’ll think about that,” he replied.

We hung up and about two hours later, he texted:

“Tony has done it again! It was inside your glove on the floor of my car.”

I texted: “I love you so much!”

Incredibly he texted back: “Ditto.”

For someone who never lost anything, my love is quite good at finding almost everything. It’s important that I keep his skills sharp. I asked him what were the times (other than the big one) that stick out in his mind when I lost, and he found.

“Well, we can’t really count your glasses, because that’s almost every day.”

No contest.

“But” he added, “I generally find the stuff within a couple of hours once I start looking.”

Can canonization be far behind?

Back to the big episode…Some years ago I was in charge of a church luncheon. I created a spreadsheet, and listed entrée choices, special requests, and check numbers. I picked up some reservation forms and checks in the church office and put them into a purple envelope. I placed the envelope on the passenger seat and drove home, first stopping to buy a few groceries. After lunch, I opened my laptop to update the spreadsheet. I realized I must have left the purple envelope in the car and went to fetch it. It wasn’t on the seat. I looked under the seat, beside the seat, and behind the seat. How could I not see a purple envelope? My guy checked the car a second time and then started investigating room by room—for hours. Exhausting the possibilities, he asked me:

“How much are we talking about?”

“Well,” I said, “each ticket cost $25 so that would be $275 altogether.”

“I’ll just pay it!” he said.

I called the office and told the secretary what happened.

“Did you pray to St. Anthony—he always comes through!” she said.

“Well, apparently not enough, but thanks for the reminder.”

The next day while working on the spreadsheet, I asked my husband to get the salmon out of the garage frig. A minute later he appeared and (in an uncharacteristically dramatic move) knelt beside me and asked:

“Do you LOVE me?”

Oh, no, you hear about this all the time—he’s leaving me--after 30+ years.

“YES,” I said.

“How much?” he demanded.

“With all my heart” I responded, now shaking.

“Good!” he said and slapped the purple envelope on the table.

Relief doesn’t begin to describe my feelings! Through some principle of static electricity, the envelope stuck to the bottom of the plastic grocery bag and when I put the fish into the refrigerator, I also chilled the checks. I must find a color I can’t lose!

Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both librarian and a teacher. Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.