This is a strange but true story. Some names have been changed, but not to protect the innocent. Every character is innocent and two are actually saintly or sainted. I had to invent some names because my old brain is rather leaky now.
These events took place around 1950 when I was stationed on an Air Force radar site atop a Vermont mountain about 15 miles from the Canadian border. That’s an important point and so is the fact that Canadian bars stayed open later than Vermont bars then . We usually had large northbound troop movents on Saturday nights.
I had to work the late night shift one Saturday and when I got off I met Wade, my barracks buddy. He seemed quite distraught. I could tell, because he was cussing loudly and often, which was very unusual for him.
“I got out of my car feeling sick (Wade could never handle more that two beers.) on a dark road someplace over the border and I lost my #!*+ wallet!” he wailed. “I looked for it for an hour in the gutters, the bushes and even the woods. No %!**# luck ! My driver’s license, my pilot’s license and most of my last month’s pay, GONE ! ”
Wade was a southerner and maybe a Baptist and not familiar with the long list of favorite saints that Catholics depend on for special help.
“How much money did you lose, Wade?” I asked.
“Close to seventy bucks. Why?”
“If I can get it back along with the licenses, my fee will be ten dollars.”
“How the *!x#& are you going to get it back?”
“Well, not me, but Saint Anthony. He’s the patron saint of of lost and stolen items. It’s amazing the way he finds the unfindable. So please stop swearing. I’m sure he’s already on the case and is nearby. He shouldn’t have to listen to your foul language.”
As the days went by and Wade’s loss began to seem permanent, he at least got some pleasure out of repeating the Saint Anthony “fable” to the other guys in the barracks. Some shook their heads and laughed, but the Irish and Italian boys had their own interesting Saint Anthony stories. I hoped they were pressing the good saint to defend his reputation.
About a month after the event, Wade received a package with two inside letters from his father. His wallet, with all his money, and both licenses were included. His Dad apologized for the delay, but wrote he’d had trouble finding someone to interpret the sender’s letter which was in French and signed by a “Father Antoine”. (Even I knew the English translation of “Antoine”.)
The good Father explained a parishoner of his found the wallet and asked him to return it to the owner. Wade’s name and home address were on the licenses.
I’d promised Saint Anthony to split the fee with him. I’m sure the local church’s Poor Box was an appropriate drop site.
Imagine That 