The beloved bag, last seen near a park full of thousands of people over Memorial Day weekend had my wallet with all my credit cards, driver's license and the usual suspects. The concert-in-the-park mainstage security guard looked at me as if I was crazy when I told him I wanted to speak to the master of ceremonies and ask him to make an announcement about the missing bag.

"Well, it beats not doing it. I've got to try," I retorted, annoyed. "You never know."

To this day I'm still not sure exactly where I left that bag, but I suspect it was right on the ground next to my SUV. The forest green of the worn patterned cloth blended sweetly into the grass. 4 hours later an inebriated MOC announced the bag's attributes to the milling masses packing up lawnchairs, sleepy toddlers and empty coolers.

Nobody seemed to give a rat's butt.

"Well," said my friend, "at least you can say you tried everything."

That along with several calls to a maze of numbers also known as the local police department turned up nothing. I resigned myself to calling credit card companies, banks and Sally's Beauty for replacement cards.

A week later, I checked my voicemail (the one I check once every 2 weeks) and heard a call made that same night at 2:30 in the morning. Someone was calling to tell me that not only did they have my wallet, they had the entire bag.

And every credit card, dollar, quarter and penny was still in it.

So the moral of the story?

When someone tells you there's hardly a chance, that's reason enough to push even more.