I Once Was Lost

Late last summer my mom and I were putting in some hosta plants in the west-side garden between the driveway and the street. I was using my left-handed felco pruners to unbind the roots. After all was said and done I went to collect my tools and it was gone. We had planted about 25 hostas. We looked and looked. I borrowed a metal detector from Nehemiah and Solomon. I kept looking off and on until the snow fell.

I asked for and received a new pruners for Christmas. Actually two. Because my mom gave me my dad's and my in-laws got me a new one.

April 28.  There is it, lying on top of the mulch in plain sight. A little rusty and muddy. I posted the picture on Facebook and I was thinking about how my grandpa could fix it up right smart. Without him around, I will have to take it to the hardware store.

Cousin Robin saw the post and commented the same. Grandpa would fix it. He would oil it and sharpen the blade and align it.

But he would've found it on the day he dropped it.
He never stopped looking for the lost thing.

He found my pocket knife in Canada. I knew it was somewhere. . . . he found it under the dock. In eight feet of Canadian lake water. And he dried it off and oiled it.

He could get a knot out of the finest silver chain. Slivers? Not a chance against that man of patience.

I took something from the pump house before my grandma sold the farm.  It's a leather dog leash. Sewn together in five places with tidy little pieces of wire. The leather was still oiled. You just don't buy a new dog leash when the old one wears through. You fix it. And fix it. And fix it.

God, the stuff I throw away in a day.
Amazon will bring you a new one in less than two hours.

I've always hated lost stuff. I think it is the symbol of negligence. If something is worth having it's worth taking care of, and being taken care means first and foremost not being lost.

Guilt. I let the snow fall. On my left-handed pruners. Now I have three.
I'll take one to the cabin. And I'll have a spare for when I take the other to the hardware store. Cuz I don't know how to oil it and sharpen it and align it myself.

The similar thing happened Christmas of 2008. With my dad's home-made ice cream machine.  It was the tradition. New Year's Eve. And the darn thing busted. Blew out the motor. Because I'm a rigid follower of traditions, I told him we'd stop and get a new one on the way home from our lady's day out shopping. We'd give it to him for an early birthday gift, I said. He was disgusted. The aren't cheap. Just stop and get store-bought ice-cream, he said. I won. We made the ice cream and it was wonderful and the kids licked the beaters in the garage with spoons my mom sent out and the cookie sheet to put all the parts on. Photo op.

Two points.

Number One. My dad took the old motor into the hardware store and the guy fixed it. $6. I'm ashamed to tell you what the new one cost. Bill and I took it home and we still use it on New Year's Eve and the forth of July. My dad's handwritten 12/31/2008 in sharpie on the box.

Second point. That was the last time my dad made ice cream for us. So there. It was worth the $200.

I guess there's a time to be frugal and a time for extravagant grace. The dog leash hangs in my closet with my belts and tries to remind me of life's lessons. And the pocket knife is in my jewelry box, rust-free with the red label tape "Stephens" on the side.

I'm missing those two men--and thinking of the bear hugs they gave me and the lessons they left me. I don't think they would approve of Amazon Prime. My grandpa would say--we don't need that--and give me a wink. My dad would call it Sahara Express and I'd probably get a wink from him too.