Yesterday, riding my bike to group fitness, I had my wallet in the gym bag and was wearing a medium jacketlike flannel. Upon the conclusion of my class, I figured I would stop at my checking bank on the way home and deposit a check from a non-computer person for a DVD I ordered for them online.

A season of "Leave It To Beaver", as if you're curious. My blog, my tangent. Oops, thank you, respected reader!

Speaking of personal procedure, I usually travel with a pen. Sorry, not this time. So I utilized one at a fitness rep's temporarily vacant desk to sign the check and put it, as well as the magic card, in the jacket pocket. Those ATM's: so conducive to the wham bam optional-thanks shuffle of our accelerated age.

The ATM visit went quickly, but did I restore the card to the wallet? No, back it went in the pocket. I'll reset things later.

Shopping this morning and not finding the card I realized it would ideally---second choice of same---be at home, paid cash, but was it? When I checked the flannel---empty. Not on the floor, as was too much other effluvia (hey, mentor, one of your favorites here).

Last night the flannel had been to another home, base for my car pool to band practice, that car's trunk, the practice itself and back. And I never put it on. I called Mr. S., my ride, who would check his trunk. On land line I called the site of my band practice and was on hold for the main desk when the cell rang with "good news". Good steeped in a marinade of lucky.

He found the card on his front walk, which something was nagging him to check. I was later than usual thias evening and he had noticed the flannel dragging as I put on a little show hurrying to his door.

It certainly is the magic card when it survives such carelessness.