Lost and Found

from the Just Because collection (2002-2006)

It’s fun being in a neighbourhood where people pay attention to comings and goings. Around my neck of the woods, we look out for one another; when a neighbour is away or in need, we collect mail, water lawns, cut grass, or check in on a cat. Long before the Neighbourhood Watch Program, we were all keeping an eye out for strangers. Some might call it nosiness, but I call it caregiving.

I was waving casually to one of my good neighbours the other morning just as he was busying himself for a fishing trip. He had recently retrieved his boat from winter storage and was checking it for damage. There was loading to be done. Items were emptied from the house into the boat and car. I watched calls being made on the cell phone as rendezvous points were discussed. Being a good neighbour means things often go in one ear and out the other. It is possible to maintain a private distance while still paying attention. As the remaining goods were stored away, final goodbyes were shouted and off went the merry travellers. I was happy to return to my coffee and newspaper in the stillness that was left after all the departing energy evaporated like morning dew on quiet lawns.

Stepping back on my verandah, I looked at the space that used to hold the busy bodies next door. I lingered at the view as my attention was drawn to a round, red and white familiar shape at the end of that neighbour’s driveway. Something must have fallen during the transfer of boxes and packages, I thought. I knew this object. I peered until my puzzle was solved. It was a fishing bobber: A classic red and white chubby sphere that was part of the fishing tackle box of my youth. I had to retrieve it. I thought briefly of jumping into my car and giving chase to the fisher people who had just left the scene. I wondered if someone would be disappointed when the loss was discovered. I held the smooth plastic orb in my hand as though a prophesy might be revealed. I played with the small red plunger to expose the tiny brass hook. I remembered my dad showing me how to wrap the monofilament securely around the bobber’s top so that it wouldn’t slide down my line when I casted my bait.

I recalled the excitement of my bobber bobbing as a fish toyed with my hook before a strike. This left behind bit of fishing tackle, now held in my hand, became an astonishing talisman reminding me of summer, as surely as the clicking sound of a cicada, the taste of wild blueberries, or the smell of neighbourhood barbecues.

Their tiny loss (or was it a gift) had become my morning sparkle.