Lost and found

This morning Walter lost a small piece that belonged to something he was working on. We were searching the floor for it, we went through the clumps of dog hair I'd just vacuumed up, and he was even going through the trash (which was where he eventually found it--I think after his second or third trash dig). The whole time I was searching, I couldn't stop thinking about my grandpa. He could find anything.

When I'd pack up and get ready to leave my grandparent's house, and notice that I couldn't find a sock, for example, my grandpa would start hunting. I'd say, "It's really okay, grandpa, I have other socks. If you come across it, just let me know." He'd just shake his head slowly, refusing to give up the hunt, and go through a check-list of places that I should have already checked.

The last time we left my grandparent's house, Walter said, "I hope we didn't forget anything." Without thinking, I caught myself saying, "Well, if we did, I'm sure grandpa will find it."

My grandparent's house is a few miles from The Ohio State University campus. This means that their street and alleys get a fair amount of foot-traffic. Every morning, my grandpa took his dog for a walk, and he'd always come back with a treasure. Pennies and other coins, wallets (don't worry, they always returned them), books, jewelry, watches, interesting furniture people had thrown away, you name it, he probably found it.

Now, any time I've misplaced something, I picture my grandpa, head down, one hand in his back pocket, slowly looking, sure that he will find it. He always did find that missing object, and then I'd get a call from grandma, telling me exactly where it was found.