Losing streak

When two days into a European vacation with friends last month, I either misplaced or someone stole my fanny pack containing cash.

The discovery came as a shock when I unpacked my bags upon our arrival at our following destination. Several hundred euros and American cash is a lot to lose.

I sat on the edge of the bed in my room and considered how to respond. It’s just cash, I reasoned. I survived the flight, am healthy, have my clothes and toiletries and good travel companions.

And my Visa. Thus, regrettably, I revised my souvenir list.

Conversely, the loss offered more time for walking up close to and within our magnificent surroundings, and visiting with my friends’ family members in Germany and Austria.

Once I returned home and phoned my daughters to confirm my safe arrival, I mentioned my loss of cash. I then learned “fanny pack” is now an unacceptable term, and to use “belt pack” instead.

Whatever, I kept what cash I had in my wallet, thanks to my Visa.

Then, Sunday morning I went searching for my keys to drive to church. I couldn’t find the ring of keys I kept attached to my purse during vacation. The same ring of keys I’ve kept in the ceramic chicken on my cabinet for the past twenty-some years.

The ring including the key fob to my car.

The same sinking feeling when I discovered my lost fanny pack overwhelmed me.

Thus began two days with what I thought was a failing key fob. Eventually, I had the car towed to the dealership where they discovered a dead car battery.

My youngest daughter drove me to the dealership and back home. Two days later, my neighbor gladly drove me to the dealership to pick up my revived vehicle.

Days prior, a bolt to my Cuisinart Stem Blender had disappeared after chopping carrots for baking a carrot cake for company. I’d scoured the kitchen in search, emptied my garbage can twice, in search of that necessary part.

Now, this absurd losing streak tested my mettle. Was I losing my mind? Did something bizarre happen to my brain while flying from Frankfurt, Germany, across the Atlantic Ocean to land in Detroit, Michigan?

Searching for answers and reprieve, I told the women about my losing streak the following day while we enjoyed tea and carrot cake under my pergola. They offered encouragement with similar scenarios of such incongruities of memory loss.

Dear Reader, a few days later I received an email from one of my tea friends with a photo of the missing Cuisinart bolt. “Does this look like your missing piece?”

“Yes! Where did you find it?” I replied.

“In Danny’s piece of cake!” Marilyn answered.

I phoned her for details. She laughed. “When Danny went to cut his piece in half to save one for later, the knife hit something.”

Indeed, at last, Danny’s discovery broke my absurd losing streak.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com