Small Plates

Thanks indeed to the kind person who found my keys

IMG_0155Janet, Abby, and Lisa Johnson

This is a post about kindness, not about food, though I wish I could share a meal with the person who saved my day.

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Dear kind person who found my keys on the Beacon Rock trail:

I am so grateful. I wish I knew your name. Here’s what happened: My friend Lisa Johnson of Seattle had been in Hood River. I asked her if she wanted to hike to the top of Beacon Rock and then stop by my house in Vancouver on her way home.

We met at the trail head at 4 p.m. I brought my dog, Abby. I stuffed my car keys, doggie poop bags, phone and driver’s license in my pockets. When Abby did her business, I took the bags out to clean up, and the keys must have fallen out. It was near the top of the mile climb. When we got to the bottom, I checked my pockets for the keys. They were gone.

Now my Volvo wagon was locked up, tighter than tight. A second set of keys was in the car. I was doomed. I called my husband, hoping against hope that we had a third key tucked away somewhere. Nope.

IMG_0161So I went to the ranger station and asked that they would call me if any keys were turned in. Then Lisa and I and the dog started home. She dropped me off, and David, the Intrepid One in this blog, packed his coat hanger and other tools that would allow him to get into the car. I was skeptical. I told him I would start hiking up the trail to recheck places while he tried to get in the car.

I looked at the Volvo wagon. There, in the door jamb some kind person had tucked in the set of keys. We rejoiced. We thank you. You made our day end perfectly.

I only hope that this message of thanks reaches the kind person who left me my keys. Cheers!

Janet Cleaveland

What happens when a retired journalist spends a lot more time in the kitchen than in past years? She tries new dishes and jumps at the chance to write a blog about food, family and good times. My kids are grown now, but I'll be looking back at how they learned to cook, what recipes my husband (the Intrepid One) and I are experimenting with, and how food and conversation make for happy times in the kitchen. I worked for The Columbian for 15 years as a copy editor and another 10 elsewhere, though I didn't start out as a journalist. I thought I wanted to teach English literature. My husband grew up in Clark County, and I've lived here since 1983. My kids have grown and left home. Like my husband of 46 years, our adopted chocolate Lab would never pass up a chance for a tasty meal.

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