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COLUMN: Lost and found in Chilliwack

A story about the kindness of strangers, and believing in the impossible

Losing money is never fun.

It doesn’t matter how, it doesn’t matter how much, and it doesn’t matter how old you are. It always feels like a punch to the solar plexus, knocking you down.

And so it was for my 14-year-old son on Friday night, when realizing he lost $60 somewhere at the Chiefs game. Our evening didn’t end in tears, but it did end on the sourest of notes once reality set in. Losing money is generally a finality, and even a teenager knows that. It flies off to live in another set of hands, another pocket, never to be seen again. End of story.

However, this story did not end when those three $20 bills wiggled their way to freedom. This story ended three days later, on our front porch. It ended with great big smiles, a firm handshake and a new appreciation for the kindness of strangers.

But what happened in between will warm even the iciest of hearts, and it’s a story that deserves telling.

My son works really hard, mowing and raking lawns, pruning trees, shoveling driveways, and moving soil. If there’s a job needed to be done, he’ll do it as pleasantly as a teenaged boy can. On Friday afternoon he was paid cash, $60, for that effort. Later in the evening we decided to head to the rink to watch the Chiefs take on Victoria Grizzlies. I gave my son money for his ticket and a snack, not knowing he had already been paid. He tucked that money in his pocket, atop his stack of well-earned cash.

Any veteran money user will know therein laid the problem. He didn’t put the money in his wallet, so naturally when the time came for a snack he unwillingly donated $60 to the floor.

But a man named Fred Gehrs was standing behind him. Fred saw the money, but didn’t see who had dropped it. He scooped it up, and told the rink’s usher. And most importantly, he held onto that money, just in case someone reported it missing.

We didn’t realize the missing money until well after the Chiefs and Grizzlies were wandering around the rink, and all the staff was long gone. There was nowhere to report a pile of missing cash, and no reason to think that someone would be so honest. We searched the area where he sat, over and over. We exchanged knowing looks, disappointed faces, and drove home in almost complete silence.

“Someone’s having a fun night with my money,” my son said. He was not impressed with himself, or with the world.

Yet, there was still a thread of hope that I clung to.

I decided to enlist the power of social media, and posted our little problem on a local Facebook page. I didn’t ask for sympathy. This wasn’t rent money or grocery money, just a kid’s hard-earned paycheque. Honestly, I was hoping to appeal to the person who had scooped up the cash. We were instantly overwhelmed with positive replies and empathy from others who knew that gut-wrenching feeling. A few people were even offering email transfers, to take collections, and to raffle off items on our behalf. It was an incredible show of support from a long list of strangers.

I politely declined. This wasn’t about money. It was about honour. It was about community. It was about keeping the hope alive that good people are out there.

“Mom, you should say yes,” my son tried to convince me on Saturday morning. “So many people want to give us money.”

And the offers were nice, they really were. But I was holding out for a miracle.

Then it happened. Yet another message came in, this time from my friend, Debbie Biggin. A friend of hers, Laurel Bohn Morden, had been watching the outpouring of support for my son and his lost money. She was moved, and rightly so. She mentioned it across the table at a local square dancing get-together.

The man sitting across from her was none other than Fred, from a few inches up in this story. Fred, who was standing behind my son in line to get concession food. Fred, the Chiefs fan. Fred, a kind soul who put the money aside in an envelope while he sleuthed out the real owner. A phone call was placed, and after a 10 minute interview of my son, Fred agreed he’d found the rightful owner of this lost and found small fortune. The plan was afoot to get my son reunited with his money, and to thank this kind stranger in person.

We met him on Monday, and he shook my son’s hand. He was wearing a Chiefs jacket. He would have called out to the crowd around him that night, he said, “but you know what would happen.”

We knew.

But here we all were. We stood on our front porch and talked about how my son earned his wages, and we made plans to connect again in the summer. That’s when Fred says he’s likely to need a hand in the yard.

“I can call you then?” he asked us.

“Anytime,” we said.

And this is the Chilliwack we choose to live in. This is the community we choose to create. Thank you, Fred, for the returned money. And thank you even more for filling our family with hope.

Jessica Peters is a reporter with the Chilliwack Progress

 



Jessica Peters

About the Author: Jessica Peters

I began my career in 1999, covering communities across the Fraser Valley ever since.
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