Southern Indiana Living Magazine - Sept / Oct 2023

A Walk in the Garden with Bob Hill
The Tale of a Lost Billfold
This will be a story, nay a possible
movie, about a lost billfold,
the amazing bureaucratic
response to same and
the destruction of an old piano with
a sledgehammer named “Buster.”
Yes, that old plotline.
It begins with the lost billfold,
a worn, faded brown-leather relic
that has been a passenger in my
left rear pocket for maybe 15 to 20
years. It contained a driver’s license
with a photo of me looking like a
depressed bank robber, a Visa credit
card and the address-card of my
foot doctor who cuts my toenails
every 10 weeks or so. It takes him
about five minutes. Minor bleeding.
Occasional salve. God bless
Medicare.
Speaking of which, tucked
away in a fold of my lost billfold
was that Medicare card, my AARP
medicine card, proof of my car insurance
and an ever-evolving, typewritten
list of old-guy medicines
with typical multi-syllable names
such as Clopidogrel Bisulfate and
Atorvastatin Calcium.
Losing a billfold at my stage
of the game is a depressing experience.
I know the smart folks stuff
all that is important and useful into
cellphones, then find ways to find
lost cellphones. I’m an old guy. My
accumulated life was in that worn
brown billfold. Financial, gastronomical
and pedicurical. I was now
in charge of finding myself.
The billfold was last seen during
a possible hand-off to my wife
while I was sitting in a golf cart
just behind the house, and she
headed into the house through the
garage. It was a possible hand-off.
We agreed on that. Then it got lost.
Bitter divorces have occurred over
less.
The search was on. A bomb
squad couldn’t have done a better
job of searching the house with its
thousands of nooks and crannies
and bookshelves and drawers and
closets and heat ducts. It was also my
understanding some lost billfolds
have been found in refrigerators
next to Hellmann’s mayonnaise. A
guy can hope while fully understanding
anything lost will finally
be found in the last place he looks. I
just hadn’t found that last place yet.
We also repeatedly and unsuccessfully
drove the golf cart past
trees, shrubs and fountains and
my depression kicked up another
notch. I knew what came next and
feared the bureaucracy involved,
the minutes, hours, days, months
and years required in contacting all
the various agencies needed to get
my life and financial security back.
The first call was to our insurance
carrier. I explained the situation
as the kind woman on the
phone took my personal information
and said, “Don’t worry about
it, I’ll get you a new card out today.”
Somewhat encouraged by that
experience, I decided to go after
the missing elephant in the room:
Medicare. I was a little worried that
I might suffer a heart attack in the
lengthy process, thus unable to get
in the hospital door without my
Medicare card.
I Googled the Medicare phone
number and was directed to a
pleasant-voiced Medicare robot
who kept asking what my problem
was. I less than pleasantly explained
he was the problem: “How
about a live person, please?”
In a flash, R2-D2 connected
me to a live person who was very
official yet kind, understanding
and helpful. She took my personal
information and promised a new
card in the mail in two weeks. She
then connected me to the very live
AARP prescription lady who was
equally fast and helpful; my card
soon in the mail.
Moving on by phone, once I
got past the Social Security robot to
a live voice, I got the same results. A
very understanding person promised
a new card before Christmas,
maybe sooner, and I was still going
to get my monthly checks.
My lost Visa card experience
went just as smoothly. The call. A
five-minute wait. A live voice. A
new Visa card within three days —
somebody wants me out there buying
stuff. Probably plant nurseries.
I was happily astounded. The
whole dreaded bureaucratic, getmy-life-back
by telephone experience
took less than 45 minutes.
Giddy was on the horizon. Leaving
only the missing driver’s license.
It required a personal visit unless
I wanted to try online — which
would have taken me until Christmas.
I walked into the Clarksville
Bureau of Motor Vehicles the next
morning fearing I would need a
sack lunch. Wrong. I was number
48 in line and 46 had already been
called. I had, for some reason, taken
a photo of my driver’s license on
my cellphone. The clerk looked at
it, banged away on her computer
and told me my new card would be
in the mail within 24 days.
Then she leaned over and sort
of whispered, “But it usually only
takes about a week.”
Shazam. A genuine love for
bureaucrats. Our tax dollars and
Visa at work, I had become a fully
and duly authorized man in about
36 hours. And only $9 for the new
plasticized driver’s license.
But what of my missing billfold?
Lean in a little closer for the
big finish. We did find it in the last
place we looked. A buddy was over
to help me take a sledgehammer we
call “Buster” to take apart a very
old piano and salvage its sounding
board for Hoosier yard art. The
process did offer some serious reverberating
sound.
Buster’s home is in the corner
of our garage next to where my
billfold had been placed on a step
stool by my wife and forgotten. We
had searched high in the garage but
never got to the low part. A truly
happy reunion without blame or recrimination.
We have been married
61 years and have gone through
worse than a lost billfold.
The resonating theme through
this tale is if we had not decided to
demolish the old piano, we never
would have had need for Buster,
and thus not found my billfold as
quickly.
Piano. Buster. Bingo.
Before finding my old billfold,
we purchased a shiny new one. All
new bureaucratic cards will go in
there for the next time I lose my old
billfold. Stay tuned for the movie. •
About the Author
Former Courier-Journal
columnist Bob Hill enjoys
gardening, good fun, good
friends and the life he and
his wife, Janet, have created
on their eight bucolic
acres near Utica, Indiana.
8 • Sept/Oct 2023 • Southern Indiana Living