The grandson who lives here is constantly losing or forgetting things. Since June, he's laundered his social security card twice that I know of. He lost his cell phone in a parking lot at the Lake Of The Ozarks, where it was run over by a car before someone called to report they'd found it.
A couple of weeks he lost his wallet, with cash and driver's license in it, and never did find it; I imagine it ended up on the ground someplace and was found by someone who kept the cash and tossed the wallet. He went and got himself a replacement driver's license, which he has decided to keep in his glove box (geesh). And he now shoves his cash loosely into his pockets. He figures if he doesn't carry a wallet, he can't lose it. (Einstein he ain't.)
Today's drama: I got up at 5 A.M. and the grandson, who should have been on his way to work, was still here.
"I locked my keys in my truck," he said. "I used to have a spare key in Grandpa's junk drawer; I don't know what happened to it."
(Luckily, he knew who to call at such an early hour to help him break into his pickup. Thanks, Jimmy John.)
This is a young man who will turn twenty-two on Saturday.
If I let him live that long.
Looking at the bright side, I suppose I should be thankful that the drama doesn't involve paternity suits or cops.