I was going along through life on auto-pilot — grandchild cared for in Atlanta, bills paid, travel plans for the summer lined out, grass mowed, weeds pulled, prayers said — when my husband called with this:

“Diane, what’s going on?  We’re overdrawn at the bank!”

“Impossible,” said I with the confidence of a veteran user of spreadsheets and budgeting.

“Better check because our balance is deep in the red zone.”

Indeed, we were overdrawn and incurring daily penalties, $25 a whack for each insufficient fund guaranteed payment. I had no idea why until I returned home and saw that Lowes had double posted a hefty April credit card payment, twice debited from our checking account and eighteen days later credited back.  The overdraft penalties had happened within the eighteen day lapse.

To add to the drama, on the day I discovered the cause of “We are WHAT?!” We had our puppy to deliver for boarding before 2pm and a plane to catch at 4:15.

I dropped in at the bank to solve the problem.  In my mind, all the bank needed to do was return the $295 in penalties to us since Lowes was responsible, not us.  Seemed like arriving at 11AM would be plenty of time to fix all this.

EXCEPT as Tina, an assistant manager of the Campbell Lane branch, explained, “Lowes made the mistake so they need to make this right with you.”

Thinking:  Hmmm, I’m gonna walk into the customer service desk at Lowes and ask for $295….

“Tina, I’m not so sure this is going to work, my walking into Lowes from the street.  Might work if you go with me and explain all this to them.”

Tina grinned. “Let me check with my manager.  Give me a minute.”

I called my husband to alert him. “This may take awhile.”

…….

While the managers at the bank rightly concluded the $295 would be Lowes’ responsibility, I insisted upon my utter ineptitude and incompetency, not to mention my emotional instability, to the extent that I needed to remain glued to the bank’s customer service chair in Tina’s office while Tina called the manager at Lowes.

Chad, manager of Lowes, referred Tina to Byron of the credit card service company, who could not  see double postings. (We couldn’t see them either since they weren’t listed on our Lowes credit card statement.) Byron told us to call Chad back and have Chad confer with his local IT department.  Only now Chad was unavailable according to J.R.

“J.R., I really need to talk with Chad.”  A masterful communicator, the even tempered Tina, who had accepted her task with friendly vengeance, finally secured Chad’s undivided attention.

The clock had been ticking away during phone calls, audio menu options to match our needs, negotiations around assistant managers, and research about when the two debits occurred, exactly what time (4:46p on May 2) and when the credit was posted (May 20).

I studied my watch and hoped my husband would remember to pack the phone chargers.

Chad wanted us to have the $295, and he would get to bottom of this, but first he had to figure out why a clerk managed to debit our account twice without my knowledge and exactly where did the money go, and why 18 days later the error was credited back to us without the credit card processing company ever being involved.

Tina said she would personally go to Lowes to pick up the money and deposit it once Chad concluded his investigations.

“Go, catch your plane.  And have a wonderful time at your grand-daughter’s graduation.”  I felt like Tina was my new BFF and wanted to hug her.

Happily, we made our flight since Denver storms had delayed flights to the Midwest, although we regret the eight planes damaged by hail and the inconvenience to other travelers making connections through Denver.

The next morning Tina called with good news:  Jennifer, the Lowes accountant, had called, Could Tina come by for the money?

Thanks to Tina, Chad, and Jennifer, the $295 is now safely in our account and available for spending.

Money does strange things to folks.  If it’s ours, we want contrarily to keep it and spend it.  Money is never ours, although we act as if it is, and we certainly resent and perhaps feel victimized when someone else has the unauthorized use if it.

We say money isn’t everything but then act as if it’s right up there next to oxygen.

Which reminds me of how airplanes have pressurized cabins and in the case of … well, the unthinkable, an oxygen mask drops down and you must first attach it to your face before you assist someone else.

My wallet disappeared on Friday, my leather black and red Lodis wallet suggested by a friend on a November shopping spree in 2004, my wallet with the pull out license and credit card insert that fits perfectly into a jean hip pocket, my wallet with its debit card, two credit cards, membership cards, my license, and 18 dollars.  AWOL!

I discovered my wallet’s absence on Monday morning at 10:30 when, at Kinko’s the salesclerk said, “That will be eleven dollars and forty-three cents.” A woman fishing into her purse knows what is there; hers is a confident, familiar act, her hand like eyes. My husband would have to dump my bag upside down to find a rock in it.  I can find a stray menthol lozenge in a split second.

“Oops!”  I said.  “Must have left my wallet on my desk.  I will be right back.”  And so it began, the spinning search for the wallet.

Life must go on.  One cannot push a pause button to look for a wallet.  My day took off without the wallet, sans identification and money.  Instead of focusing on the business at hand, my mind slipped into replay mode:  Where had I been?  I sent texts to friends.  Maybe they had seen it.

“Sorry.  Haven’t seen it.”

The wallet’s absence sliced through Monday’s schedule, serious discussions at a board meeting, companionable conversations with friends, a dinner party, and an evening concert.  It was bedtime before I could look under sofas, through pockets, and into cabinets.  Defeated, I slept fitfully.

Tuesday’s sunrise woke me.  Typically, not an early bird, I jolted out of bed and renewed the ruminant search.  No activity had occurred on our bank accounts, so the wallet was secure, but secure where?  Behind the washer and dryer.  Under a bag in the car.  On the deck.  In the greenhouse.  Beneath a boxwood shrub.  Maybe our pup had carried it off.  Under beds.  Into closets. To his bed.

By noon I had given up.  “I’m gonna have to put a stop on all the cards,” I said to my husband who was quietly finishing a turkey sandwich.  I had spent lunchtime reviewing for him my replayed scenes from Friday.  He said nothing.

I dialed the bank’s number.

“Stop!  Found it!”  And there it was, in his hand, my precious wallet — ice cold.  “Found it in the freezer.”

Honestly, there is a logical explanation.  A frozen pork loin, a distracted mind, etcetera.

But..

As one friend said, “I have been meaning to talk with you about your habit of wearing your bra on the outside of your blouse…just saying.”

……
“Your own brain ought to have the decency to be on your side!”
― Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith

“I make it easier for people to leave by making them hate me a little.”
― Cecelia Ahern, The Book of Tomorrow

I was 19, a time still fresh in my memory but honestly so long ago I should have left it behind in life’s wake of marriages, deaths, children, and grandchildren.  And who knows? This story might be colored by my needs today.  I’m incapable of parsing events then and now into evidentiary facts, so convinced I am of the emotional lesson.

I was in love. Ridiculously, blindly in love with a handsome fella, so handsome I found it hard to believe I’d landed him with so little effort, standing in line during freshman orientation, drinking coffee, lightly talking about where we were from.  That day stretched into lunch together, a walk in a nearby park, and one date after another, delicious kisses, and well, let’s just say it was difficult to concentrate on writing essays about Poe’s “Cask of Amontillado” and Faulkner’s “Bear.” Somehow I managed to memorize how DNA and RNA differed and could categorize periods of art history in spite of my preoccupation for my handsome boyfriend who pulsed within me like electrical current.

The handsome one modeled for Los Angeles magazines between semesters.  His blue eyes weren’t just for show; they were invitational as in “Tell me.” His neatly cut bronze hair polished his clean cut appearance, his athletic body appearing casually confident.  We met after classes, talked every day, played together, laughed and cried together.  We admired gardens and enjoyed art.  We danced on Saturday nights and attended church on Sundays. I liked how his gentleness contrasted with his athletic energy.

And then after two years of long walks through neighborhood gardens, golf and tennis games, weekend ski adventures, long bike rides through the countryside, beach adventures, and studying together, something changed. A tilt.

The clues were subtle.  He called less.  He was concentrating on his studies. He said less.  The distance morphed to irritations, misunderstandings, and confusion.

He wasn’t seeing someone else.  He just wasn’t present.  He became my opaque dinner companion and my silent dance partner.

I liked him less but loved him more.  It felt odd.

I waited as if suspended.

Whatever was happening, I could not dislike him, much less hate him.

And then the spring semester ended. He came to kiss me goodby.  I was returning home for my summer in San Francisco, he for his summer in San Bernadino.  The kiss was unlike any in my experience, a kiss, I now know, filled with feelings of failure and grief, but warm with affection and care.  He had decided love wasn’t enough.

His Dearest Diane letter arrived two weeks later.  He had dropped out of school.  He had failed to meet his parent’s requirements for his remaining at Willamette University.  He believed he wasn’t good enough for me and there would be no changing his mind.  He had to carve out a new pathway.  He apologized for the confusions and misunderstandings.  He realized he had tried to make it easier by distancing himself. I had surprised him with my patience and acceptance while he had anticipated my learning to hate him.  He would never forget me and love me for ever. But it was over.

I don’t know about him.  But I have never forgotten him, and in a way I have always loved him, as he was then, not the man he became, but the man he was at the time.

Our puppy, little seven pound Ollie, has achieved a predictable set of circumstances in our relationship that enhance his security.  We humans, his caretakers, sit in chairs to read, sleep in one bed, eat at a table, work at desks, dig in dirt, and drive away in a car.  Ollie understands he must not bother us when we eat or sleep, that the living room is out of bounds, and that if he acts agitated near the back door he gets immediate access to the back yard.  He has safe zones: a kitchen throw rug, a corner of a family room sofa, a pillow on the office floor, and in worst case scenarios the “you can’t catch me space” under our king size bed.

So when suddenly the other night when the TV bleeted beep-beeps and its screen switched to a deadening black and white scrolling alert message: TORNADO ALERT in the following counties….until midnight…. Take cover…. and when just as suddenly the TV went silent and blank, and we normally quiet humans jumped into action, first to stick our heads out the front door to listen to warning sirens and check for swirling skies, and then began tossing coats and boxes out of a hall closet, Ollie froze on his haunches, cocked his head to the side, and looked at us like we had lost our minds.

From Ollie’s point of view (indicated by italics) we were making a mess of the hallway and engaging in disorderly behavior. Usually we only put one or two coats onto the sofa, which is a signal we are planning to put Ollie behind a gate in the laundry room and abandon him for a few hours.  Are they going to wear all those coats? Cautiously sniffing at the floor, Ollie edged closer to the closet.

“Herb, Ollie is scared.  Poor baby.  Come here, Ollie.  Here, baby,” I said, making encouraging smooching sounds.  Just as Ollie looked as if he might trust me, the eight foot stainless steel telescope for viewing wild life in the tree tops, and which we had stored in the closet behind the coats, crashed to the floor.

We’re being attacked.  Run!  Ollie yelped, reversed course, and stopped a safe distance away next to the glass french doors.

“Glass!  Herb!  Ollie!  No!”

“Just a minute.  I’m getting batteries for the radio. Stay put.”

“Here, Ollie.  It’s okay.  Here, baby.”  Smoochy, smoochy, smoochy.

Ollie lay on the carpet with his head down on his paws, eyes raised suspiciously, as if to say I’ve got my eyes on you, and I am not getting into that closet with you.  Papa will save me from all this nuttiness.

Herb swooped Ollie up off the floor and handed him to me.  “It’s okay, Ollie. You’re safe now.”  I cuddled the squirming Ollie to my breast in a life saving grip.

Le’ go of me.  I want outta here!

Herb handed me a jug of water, a blanket, two flashlights, a cell phone, a rain coat, and a pair of shoes, then went to check the skies. The closet was in the middle of the house underneath a staircase but the glass doors were only eighteen feet away.  “Herb, this isn’t safe.  Those glass doors!  This is not going to work.  There’s not enough room for you. “

“It’ll be fine.  Here, I’ll show you.”

Now what?!  Papa is crawling in here with us?  I’m getting out of here!  Ollie wriggled free and tore for under the bed. Herb elbowed me in the chin and squashed my left thigh.  We struggled free and went after Ollie, who, sensing an ambush, fled from under the bed and raced down a short hall to the walk-in closet.

The dog has more sense than we have, I thought. “There’s no glass anywhere near the walk-in closet. “

Ollie crouched in a back corner under hanging dresses and watched us, his trusty caretakers, discuss the merits of sitting in this or that closet.

“The mirror is made of glass,” said Herb.

“But it’s not a bank of French doors to the great outdoors!”

“This isn’t in the center of the house.”

“I like being with all my shoes.  Hmmm.  What should I wear while waiting for the maple tree to fall on the house?   Hiking boots or these new red patent leather Brightons?

Herb shook the radio.

What’s that red box in Papa’s hand?  The red box, a portable radio, squealed like a stuck pig.  I’m going to upchuck, right here, right now.  I’ve had enough of this!

I heard the ominous stomach pumping sound of a dog planning to vomit.  “Herb!”

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”

So there we were, sitting on the closet floor, listening to a local radio station. “Winds up to 70 miles per hour moving through South Warren County with potential tornado activity….”  Ollie was losing his dinner.  Our own dinner of chili and corn bread was cooling on the stove.  Our TV cable service had freaked out.  Lightning was crackling in the trees outside, and our power was flickering.

All tuckered out, Ollie, sunk into my lap and fell asleep.  I could use a pillow myself, I thought.  Of all the things we hadn’t remembered for our vigil, a pillow!  Because waiting for an all clear when nothing tragic going to happen is really, really, really boring.