It has been driving me crazy for months--I lost my box of journals somewhere in the house. I remembered moving them to a safe place when we had a spate of visitors in all of our spare rooms last summer. But where oh where was the "safe place?"
I found myself looking in the same places repeatedly as if I expected that although they weren't there the last time I looked, just maybe they migrated while I wasn't looking and were waiting to jump out and surprise me, "Ha ha--here we are!" Surely I couldn't have accidentally thrown the box away?
Meanwhile, Brenda, also similarly crazed, was looking for a book I'd given her and which she was sure she had packed, ready for her last trip. When she looked for it in the case it wasn't there. She looked everywhere but couldn't find it. How could a book just vanish?
I was determined to find the journals before leaving for England--a self imposed deadline. And so, although we are still in the middle of a heatwave and the loft room is the hottest room in the house, because they just had to be in there somewhere, I planned to drag every box from the storage closet beneath the roof and look inside them.
Opening boxes and looking inside is a misnomer really. I open boxes and get lost in the contents, so it was a very good thing that I only dragged out about five boxes before I opened a lid and glimpsed the silvery green five year diary with a lock but no key--my confidante between the ages of 12 and 16, and the red 1977 journal--I was 27 then--and piles of other journals in different shapes and sizes and colours, some spiral bound and some not--my life at different times and stages.
I heaved a sigh of relief and carried the box into our bedroom, where it is now safely on the floor of a built in closet, easily accessible.
Meanwhile I thought I had better start packing the suitcase that has been sitting beside my bed for a week . I found a black item of clothing camouflaged by the black lining of the case. It that didn't belong to me. I could only imagine it belonged to Brenda or one of the girls. Our cases are in regular family circulation.
It was indeed Brenda's. "Hey, did you happen to find the book in the case?" she asked.
"No, but it could be in an outside pocket," I answered.
She bounded upstairs, unzipped the pockets and with brown eyes sparkling brightly in triumph, shouted, "I've found it!"
Brenda had been going to borrow our case for her last trip, but changed her mind after taking it downstairs to start packing and decided instead to splurge and buy herself an easily identifiable purple case with an orange belt to go around it.
Two mysteries satisfyingly solved!
Actually it was three if I count the drivers licence that Paul has been driving around without, unknown to him. He discovered it was missing on Friday when he needed ID to rent a truck and called home, his voice grave.
"Belinda, I've lost my driver's licence."
I considered asking what he had done, but reconsidered!
"Have you used it lately for anything?" I asked, "What about your passport application?"
"I did photocopy it!" he said slight hope creeping into his voice (this was quite some time ago--months.)
I went into his office, opened up the photocopier lid, while breathing a prayer. There it was! Relief all around!
This seems to be running in the family lately. :)