I rarely have much cash in my wallet. We have a checking account, so the days of money orders are over, except for speeding tickets. When I lost my wallet this summer, there was no cash in it. It was just a big inconvenience to wait for the new ATM card and the new drivers license and all of the other cards. I got my wallet back three weeks later after I had replaced everything. It had been in a drawer at the local natural foods store the whole time.

A relative gave us a big check for our anniversary last month. It was expressly for certain things for our house and garden. We bought a new (old) front door to replace the current one that has lead paint. The new (old) one is still in the garage having the thinner layer of lead paint stripped off of it and one of the things we needed was a thick piece of safety glass for it. I ordered the glass and we deposited the check from our relative. As soon as it cleared, I withdrew all of the money. I knew if it stayed in the bank it get used for food and gas. I withdrew it to protect it.

It was $500 cash.

Then I lost my wallet.

I remembered distinctly the last moment that I saw it. I went to the grocery store. The baby was chewing on it as we left and walked toward our car. It dropped onto the ground and when I picked it up, I noticed how wet it was because it was snowing that day. I put it in my pocket and I was in my car 120 seconds later. When I got to my next errand, it was nowhere to be found.

I rushed back to the grocery store, sure of the short distance between where I had last seen it and the car. It was not there.

I came home and fretted. I imagined someone finding it. I told myself that my wallet would come back to me because it had before. I hoped that if someone found it and had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, that they would see my WIC ID and my Medicaid cards and the angel would score.

After an hour passed I began to think the worst. Why would it take someone so long to call if they were going to be honest?

After about an hour and a half I got a phone call from the police. They had my wallet. All of the money was there.

When I got there I asked who had returned it. I wanted to thank the person. "Oh, it was Frank, Frank Hamford*. You know, he walks around town, tall guy with big glasses." I explained that I just moved here in January, that I didn't know who he was. "He works for COARC" the officer elaborated.

COARC is a local organization that helps developmentally disabled adults find work and housing. I thought the guy was a social worker or something, a local do-gooder. A regular Mr. Nice Guy.

"He's retarded," the officer went on, "lives in a group home on the corner of Grand and Beech, a big white house - those people are the most honest people you'll ever meet, you're lucky he found it."

It took over an hour for me to get a phone call because Frank was walking in the snow to the police station.

I had imagined myself sending flowers or something to whoever returned it, and I asked the officer if he thought that would be a good gift for Frank. "Get him some scratch offs. He'll love that."

So Sunday I delivered a card filled with the most extravagant scratch offs to Frank at the huge beautiful Victorian house that he shares with a bunch of the most honest people you'll ever meet. Frank sat on a sofa watching TV through the big round glasses that the police officer described. He looked a bit like Norman Rockwell. His housemates were very friendly, one kept telling me that he had a "terrible cold, a terrible cold." I told Frank that he had brought my wallet to the police and that I wanted to thank him. He knew my husband's name, perhaps it is in my wallet somewhere, or maybe the police had mentioned it. He had a sweet and gentle disposition and once he opened the card with the scratch offs in it he thanked me endlessly. I eventually had to say goodbye and shut the door through his thank yous .

I am left loving where I live. I love it because Frank lives here and I love it because the police know Frank well enough to know that he'd rather have scratch offs than flowers.

(*Frank isn't his real name)