Helping the lost to find their way home
A week ago I wrote about some of the many and varied things I’ve found along the way over the past 15 years as I’ve traveled back and forth to work by bicycle. Plenty of trinkets, tons of trash and a satisfying number of treasures have lined my way — seemingly dropped by fate as breadcrumbs to drawn me on toward the office or lead me back home at the end of the day — each with its own story to tell.
While it’s easy to conclude that most of my finds had already been written off by their owners as collateral damage in man’s constant quest to “get there” by the fastest means possible, it’s also evident that some of the things I’ve found were placed in my path so I could work to return them.
For instance, just the other morning I found a hammer laying in the middle of the road. Rounded and stained, the head bears witness to a million mighty blows. The handle, worn smooth by decades of faithful duty, speaks to the utility of blunt force as powerful medicine — the ultimate cure for things that have inexplicably run out of whack.
This is someone’s grandfather’s hammer. I know this for certain because I have one of my own. To see the pair together suggests twins separated at birth that went on to live shockingly similar lives. Contact me at the address below if you (or your grandpa) happen to be missing a hammer. A positive identification will land it back in the hand of its rightful owner.
While far from the category of family heirloom, some items demand return simply based on their value alone. A few weeks ago, while pedaling through the pre-dawn darkness I spotted a strange, small glow in the lane ahead. There, in the dangerously narrow space between the tire-tracks of westbound Old Lincoln Way, lay a smartphone that had wandered astray with its flashlight fully lit — the only thing that saved it from certain demise as rush hour loomed just moments away.
After dodging danger in a carefully choreographed dance meant to prevent the dozen or so drivers who straddled the phone at speed from crushing it while distracted by me, I plucked the device from the jaws of death. I quickly stuck it in my jersey pocket and rode the remaining few miles to the office. There, I discovered that not only was the phone largely undamaged, save for a cracked screen, it was also unlocked, and fully operational.
As I searched the phone’s contact list for an ICE (In Case of Emergency) number it began to vibrate in my hand! When I answered on the first ring the caller was obviously shocked and decidedly awkward.
“Um, hello,” he stammered. “I ... I’m looking for a lost phone,”
“Well that’s interesting,” I said. “I’m actually holding a lost phone!”
The caller went on to explain that he’d set the phone on the bed of his truck after checking some tie-downs (that’s why the light was on) and he hadn’t noticed it missing until he was miles down the road.
We arranged a quick meetup near where I’d found the thing and within the hour man and phone were joyfully reunited. A reward was offered, but I assured the old boy (who admitted he has a heck of a time keeping track of such things) that I had already been richly rewarded with a great story to tell.
Now, let’s hope my “hammer story” ends the same way!
Kristin and John would love to hear from you. Write: Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627 or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.