It is appropriate, I suppose, that the day after the first anniversary of my Mother’s passing it appears I am taking on one of her more challenging characteristics. For the fourth time this week I have lost and eventually found something that I put “in a safe place.”

To say this habit is frustrating is really nowhere near an adequate description.  Inevitably the something I’m  looking for and can not find is something important and more times than not I need it quickly – my passport or a piece of jewelry that I  rarely wear and this would be the perfect opportunity but it’s hidden so deeply that not only can burglars not find it, neither can I.  I run around the house sifting through likely hiding spots, tearing my hair out and asking “why do I do this?” Today it happened TWICE.

There is probably stuff hidden so deep in my childhood home, in a place that is so safe that it still has not been found and may never be found.  We used to laugh at Mom and then when I married Al he did similar things – e.g. put our return plane tickets in a safe place in Mom’s house. We had to buy new tickets. She found them months later in the very front of the little file cabinet in the guest room.

The worst part of this predicament is that, unlike my mother, I am kind of a clutter bug, so it means I will find what I am looking for when and only when I tidy up likely hiding places. Closets? Drawers? Those are for amateurs.  My stuff is hidden in Christmas wrapping boxes and boxes of miniature making supplies. Possible under a pile of old makeup or in the unused fireplace stuck between some fake logs.

As an aside, yesterday I actually got online to look for a possible psychological, scientific explanation of why asking for St. Anthony’s help in finding lost items works as well as it does and could find nothing.  Terri got me believing in that childhood practice again and I don’t understand, but it works every time.  I’m sure there must be a rational explanation, but frankly I don’t want to hear it.

I like believing in miracles!