A worst-case scenario didn’t come true — and her faith in humanity was restored

This article originally appeared in The Inquirer on Aug. 4, 1999.

It was early Saturday morning. Very early. The plans for the day included going to the swim club with our daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren for the club’s very special "Fun Day.'' It was going to be great. We were so looking forward to getting together.

I decided to go to the supermarket to pick up a few picnic items for our day at the pool. There weren’t many people out and about. As I said, it was very early. My shopping went well and I headed home. I was within one mile of my house when disaster struck.

I am not sure why, but suddenly I thought about my purse, which, among other things, contained credit cards (about eight varieties), driver’s license, insurance cards, blank checks, a safety deposit box key, $75 in cash, my calendar/date book (which is the diary of my life), etc., etc., etc. You get the picture.

I pulled over to the curb to search the back seat of my car and then its trunk, where I sometimes put the purse after shopping. It wasn’t there. What do I do? Where do I turn?

Quickly, I turned the car around and headed back to the supermarket, breaking all the speed limits along Route 38 and Interstate 295.

If a cop were to stop me, I would have no license to show him. If I had an accident, no proof of insurance. It didn’t matter. I had to get back.

While driving, it came to me that I had left my purse in the shopping cart next to where I had parked the car.

Every other vehicle on the road was driving too slowly. The traffic signals were all flashing red. If I’d had wings, I would have taken off over all of the obstacles in my path. But such thoughts were nothing compared to the terror in my heart.

My planned day of fun was already ruined. Over and over, I kept thinking of what I would have to do to inform all of the credit card companies of my loss and of how much it was going to cost me and my husband.

» READ MORE: Mom’s pigs are on display at Uncle Will’s Pancake House

I couldn’t even remember which credit cards were in the purse or how I was supposed to go about notifying the credit card companies.

It was Saturday. Monday, I would have to go to the motor vehicle bureau for a new license. What would that entail? I would need new insurance cards. I would have to Contact my bank about the loss of my checks. Getting a new lock and key for our safety deposit box was going to be very expensive.

The whole weekend was going to be bleak; there was little I could do until after it was over. My head was spinning, and my heart was beating so fast that I thought it would explode. I started crying, and praying, “Please let me find it. Please let me find it.”

I finally made it back to the supermarket lot and went to the spot where I had parked the car. There was no shopping cart and no purse.

I ran into the supermarket, pushing everyone out of my way to the customer service counter. I felt like I was about to faint.

“Please, has anyone returned a purse to you this morning?” I inquired of the clerks behind the counter.

Four faces blandly stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. Then one asked, “What’s your name and address?” The information satisfactorily provided, they at last handed me my purse.

But was it intact? Were all the valuable contents still inside? Yes, yes, yes, nothing had been touched.

Breathlessly, I asked the clerks for the name of the person who had turned in the purse. All they could tell me was that it was someone who had come into the store to shop.

I thanked them with all my heart. But how can I ever thank the person whose honesty brought my story to a happy ending? All I can do is hope that if ever he or she is in a similar situation, some other honest soul will come to the rescue.

My husband suggested that I write this story so this wonderful human being might read it and know what one act of kindness has meant to me. To say the least, it restores my faith in mankind.

By the way, that weekend was the very best ever.

At publication, Yolanda Guastavino was a retired secretary living in Mount Laurel.