Not Qualified to Carry This Anymore

I’m turning into my mother more and more every day. Back when I was taking care of her, she’d hand me her credit card whenever we went shopping. She’d say, “I’m not qualified to carry this anymore.” She was afraid she’d lose it.

Now I catch myself doing the same thing. When Rachel and I go out, I sometimes give her my wallet to toss in her purse. I’m scared I’ll lose it. Since I’ve retired, I lost my driver’s license in Paris, left my credit card at a restaurant in South Dakota, and who even knows what happened to my prescription sunglasses.

I don’t know if it’s age, distraction, or just bad luck—but at this point, Rachel’s purse is basically my security system. Which is not a great idea, because if we ever lose her purse—especially when we’re traveling—we’d both be without credit cards and personal identification.

I’ve lost my wallet twice.

In the 1970s, I went to a Cleveland Indians game at the old Municipal Stadium in Cleveland. The Indians were terrible back then. They had players most fans had never even heard of. The stadium was huge—it held over 70,000 people—but the team was so bad, it wasn’t unusual for them to draw only about 6,000 fans.

At the game I attended, I remember an usher holding a white towel, escorting us to our seats, and wiping them off before we sat down. Because of the low attendance, many of the seats were dirty from lack of use. Six thousand fans could easily get lost in that cavernous stadium.

I don’t know how someone managed to find the wallet I left behind, but somehow, they did. A lady mailed it to my home in California with a note that said, “Indian fans watch out for each other.” I think she felt sorry for me—not just for losing my wallet, but for being an Indians fan.

The second time, my wallet was in my car when it was stolen. I was in my early 20s—old enough to know better. I didn’t even remember my license plate number when the officer asked. That didn’t help.

I told my parents everything—except one detail: the wallet. I was too embarrassed to tell them. A week later, I got a notice from the Post Office. Someone had dropped it in a mailbox, minus the cash.

The 1970s were my lost decade in more ways than one.

Later, someone broke into my first apartment. They stole my stereo, but what really got to me was knowing they had gone through my drawers—those drawers. The ones with my underwear. That apartment had been my first real home. But I moved out soon after. I felt violated, and I just couldn’t live there anymore.

My wife and I are frequent visitors to this beach town in San Diego. One time, when she was off doing her own thing, I took off and drove 20 miles south and inland to that same apartment building. It now has bars on all the windows and graffiti on the walls. Fifty years later, it looked like the crooks were still in charge.

But I haven’t given up on people.

One day, I was at the bank when a man walked in and asked if anyone drove a black Ford Fusion. He had accidentally backed into my car. I expected the worst, but it was just a scratch. I told him not to worry—I’d take care of it with some touch-up paint. He insisted on paying. Showed me his ID. Tried to hand me $300. I refused. We settled on $100.

That kind of honesty still means something.

For a long time, I thought my mom handed me her credit card because she was forgetful. Now I understand—it was trust. She trusted me to look after the things she was afraid of losing.

We may lose things as we get older—wallets, sunglasses, even our sense of certainty. But if we’re lucky, we hold on to the people who help us feel safe.