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As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked it up and looked inside to find some identification so I could call the owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in there for years. The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on it was the return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find some clue. Then I saw the dateline - 1924. The letter had been written almost sixty years ago. It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting on powder blue stationery with a little flower in the left hand corner. It was a "Dear John" letter that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the writer could not see him any more because her mother forbade it. Even so, she wrote that she would always love him. It was signed, Hannah. It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way except for the name Michael, that the owner could be identified. Maybe if I called information, the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope. "Operator," I began, "this is an unusual request. I'm trying to find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is there anyway you can tell me if there is a phone number for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?" She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for a moment then said, "Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can't give you the number." She said,
as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain my story
and would ask them if they wanted her to connect me. I waited
a few minutes and then she was back on the line. "I
have a party who will speak with you." This whole thing was stupid, I thought to myself. Why was I making such a big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that had only three dollars and a letter that was almost 60 years old? Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was supposed to be living and the man who answered the phone told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying with us. " Even though it was already 10pm, I asked if I could come by to see her. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "if you want to take a chance, she might be in the day room watching television." I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home.
The night nurse and a guard greeted me at the door. We
went up to the third floor of the large building. In the
day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah. She was a sweet,
silver haired old timer with a warm smile and a twinkle
in her eye. I told her about finding the wallet and showed
her the letter. The second she saw the powder blue envelope
with that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath
and said, "Young man, this letter was the last contact
I ever had with Michael." She looked away for a moment
deep in thought and then said Softly, "I loved him
very much. But I was only 16 at the time and my mother felt
I was too young. Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like
Sean Connery, the actor."
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