The Finding

Several years ago, a naïve me walked into the Kaufman County Courthouse and paid a licensing fee for a business name. I wanted to open a junk store. I wanted a bucket of rusty things for sale that sat so close to a stack of vintage doilies and those fabric calendars from the 50s that one would have to be careful of the orange hue you could pass along if you touched recklessly. I wanted antique books and faded velvet settees and antler sheds and old chiffon prom dresses and handmade candles and primitive corn husk dolls and creepy portraits of 19th century people I don’t know – all available for purchase to likeminded folks who understand what is lost when we lose interest in the making of the things. And, trust me, this world has lost interest in the making of the things. My husband was not a fan of this idea. He reminded me that I was the only person he knew that carted around creepy portraits and vintage dolls with crackling faces. So, reluctantly, I shifted the perspective of this “company” of mine to something more valuable… me. I would stage events with my collections. You could hire me to do your wedding or your baby shower – I collect vintage high-top baby shoes, too – or your commercial chalk art. Except, my idea of staging a wedding involves heavy furniture, U-Haul rentals, a makeshift flower shop, and my own manic brain that is prone to suddenly turn on a dime because I now see that we MUST have a mime performing, or a working 1890s carousel, or a French accordion player, or puppies instead of flower bouquets. I’m an enneagram 4 wing 5, after all. It’s all about emotions. I have beautiful ones, and I want to share them with the world. Actually, what this column is about today has nothing to do with my disturbed noggin. It’s that old company name of mine, still protected by the county for another 4 years. I was going to call my venture “Lost & Found.” My tag line: all good things must be lost in order to be found.

When I was 16, I narrowly escaped what would, I am certain, have turned out to be a really bad situation. Something told me that boy was not for me. We didn’t use the term stalking in the 80s. I only knew that every time I closed my locker, every time I rounded the hallway corner, every time I picked up my ringing baby blue slimline phone with the 20 ft cord, it would be him. Then, he would ignore me for an entire week, following another girl, lying in wait for her. But, suddenly, he would appear again with gifts or praise or public endorsements of his devotion. We also did not understand terms like lovebombing in the 80s. Soon, I was so wrapped up in these moments where I finally felt loved to a worship level that I didn’t bat an eye when he hit some random guy at the movies one night just for looking at me. It was the bezel incident that shocked me into consciousness. I looked down at my watch, a Christmas gift from my parents. The bezel was gone – just no longer there. I asked the teacher for permission to retrace my steps. I scoured the hall. I examined the commons area with the 20/20 vision gifted only to the young. I sighed in front of the cafeteria, realizing I would never see that bezel again. It was lost. And, then I looked up. He was there, standing by the high school commissioned mosaic mascot that was protected by velvet ropes. He held his hand out and said, “looking for this?” It was the bezel. Suddenly, the recent walk to English class that was accompanied by his rough clutch of my wrist all made terrifying sense. My bezel was never really lost, but my innocence was.

One year later, on a date with another boy, one who would become father to my children, I wore my mother’s most prized possession, her diamond earrings. Her parting words of “be careful with these” would haunt me for a very long time. I had to go before her the next morning with only 1 of the earrings, a gift from my father on the occasion of their 1st anniversary and explain how one was lost. The kindness, the gentleness she gave me in return hurt me far worse than the ugly words I had braced for. “I understand,” she said. “They’re just things. I’m glad I have you – something so much more precious.” Oh, how sweetness cuts deeper than a sword when we have also disappointed ourselves. I will never forget the utter release of relief that overtook me when that boy called months later. He had his truck detailed. The worker presented him with one beautiful diamond solitaire earring that was tightly wedged between the seat mechanics and the upholstery. It was never really lost.

Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton was an Anglo-Irish explorer with a passion for the Arctic. He died in 1921, at 47, from a heart attack that many labeled a broken heart, as his beloved ship, The Endurance, sunk in the icy ocean 5 years prior. I cannot imagine his trepidation at informing his investors of the fate of their endorsements and monetary offerings. “It is lost forever,” he surely said. Yet, last week, 107 years later, this remarkably intact ship was found only 4 miles off course from its supposed frozen internment. Having no warm waters to develop wood loving larvae to eat through the boards, everything is pristine by shipwreck standards. Head of formulated research for the ship’s location attempt, Dr. John Sears, said to the BBC this week, “We have found the unfindable. We have achieved what many thought was impossible.” As we go in search of our lost things, let us remind one another of the most important thing we are searching for – ourselves.