First-Born Son, better look out!

A few Sundays ago, my guardian angel rose and stretched. “Been working overtime for the old gal,” he said with a yawn, “Think I deserve to sleep in this a.m.” With that, he crawled back into his feathery bed and was soon snoring.

 I, on the other hand, was wide awake. I was leaving church and putting something into the trunk of my car while I carried on an animated conversation with the people in the car next to mine. Still chatting, I turned the key and, with a jaunty wave, drove on home.

But alack and alas, once I arrived, a quick check of the front seat delivered the bad news that I had taken off without my little blue purse. It was not in the car, nor in the trunk, just not anywhere.  I didn’t mourn the bag, so old it came from Talbots  in Hingham, Massachusetts, which was then the only Talbots store in existence. The major loss was my credit cards and drivers license—all of them a giant pain to replace.

I broke the bad news to my husband, who insisted on going back over my route with me. We checked at the church, then drove home at a snail’s pace, with him hanging out the window, eyeballing the weeds at the side of the road. No luck. No little blue purse in sight.

I’m an optimist, so I didn’t give in to despair, though my heart sank, picturing the hours I’d have to spend at the DMV getting another license and over the phone replacing credit cards. There would be calls to insurance companies and a new library card  and one for Costco. Fortunately, I was only carrying my wallet, a packet of tissues, and a pair of dime store glasses. My indispensable phone was safe at home.

After several hours passed, I stopped beating myself up for my carelessness and realized that life goes on, even when you’ve been an idiot. Just about then, an enormous red fire engine purred slowly into our courtyard. Three beaming firemen emerged, one carrying a small blue something. My heart leaped.  Could it be?

Yes, it could. The firemen told me that two women bicycling on Palos Verdes Drive South had seen my purse, picked it up and deposited it at the nearest fire station, which was halfway between the church and my home. My good Samaritans didn’t even leave their phone number so I could thank them.  Instead I thanked the firemen. I would have offered them anything, even my first born son, as a reward. But what would a fire station do with a 58 year old artist?.

So, thanks to the quick thinking of a pair of female cyclists, my day was saved. Or could it have been that my guardian angel finally woke up and got back on the job?




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