THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, March 5, 1995 TAG: 9503050045
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
LENGTH: Medium: 66 lines
People lose things.
As sure as there are death and taxes, there will come a time when we will misplace something we really need. It's gone.
Outta here. Gone to the great void where odd socks go once they escape from the dryer.
Take a look at the photo with this column. Male pattern baldness - that's the kind of loss that passes from generation to generation.
And what's worse than a receding hairline is the pain that comes every time Sy Sperling of the Hair Club For Men appears on the TV. You know, he's not just president, he's also a client. I'm sure his family is quite pleased.
Losing things can be painful.
Our tempers. Our patience. Our loved ones.
Sometimes losing something can be both good and bad. Often folks lose their minds. That phenomenon of human existence is one of the great distinctions between Northerners and Southerners.
Imagine, if you will, Aunt Myrtle. She's 93 years old, has blue hair, and believes with all her heart that the mailman is indeed Elvis, the King of rock 'n' roll. She also takes pride in her collection of potatoes that she claims resemble the Conservative prime ministers of Great Britain.
Now if dear old Auntie lives in Cleveland, chances are pretty good that she'll be packed off to a ``nice, quiet place,'' near Phoenix. She will be discussed in a whisper, and sent a fruitcake at Christmas.
But if Myrtle lives in Biloxi, she won't be locked away. She'll be at the head of the Sunday dinner table. And family members will talk about the Margaret Thatcher spud with gushing pride, in much the same way most folks talk about their daughter who graduated from Harvard Medical School.
All the thoughts of things lost and found center around the one thing that all of us lose. The great common thread in the lost and found bin of life is a set of car keys.
I know. It happened to me.
Tuesday morning, rushing to get to an early morning meeting, I had all the usual accoutrements - billfold, checkbook, notebook, pen - but no car keys.
I looked everywhere. Pants pockets. Shirt pockets. Under the cushions of the couch. Under the bed. No keys.
I checked the absurd - in the refrigerator, the microwave, the oven - no dice. I scoured every nook and cranny of my house, leaving clothes and cushions in my wake. I even got a neighbor to help me move furniture. By 1 a.m. Wednesday, my house bore a striking resemblance to Dorothy's after the cyclone in the ``Wizard of Oz.'' Finally, I resigned myself to hitching a ride to the nearest Mazda dealership - in Virginia, of course - to get new keys.
Wednesday at 7 a.m., the alarm sounded. I swept my hand under the pillow, and felt something metal.
Car keys.
I haven't the foggiest idea how they got there, but under the pillow they were.
The objects of my frustration, those things that forced me to bum a ride to my meeting, had the last laugh. I made jokes about being visited by the ``Key Fairy.''
But one thing about those keys. Those little suckers will humble you in a heartbeat. They'll make you understand how important the little things - a kind word, a smile, a listening ear - can be.
And they'll tell you that despite all our differences, we're very much alike. Somewhere along the way, we've all lost something. by CNB