from the Manchester (CT) Evening Herald, Tuesday, June 18, 1963
One muggy, overcast Saturday afternoon in June I was delivering the Manchester Evening Herald on Spruce Street. When I crossed the street in front of the Presbyterian Church, I noticed something in the middle of the road. I looked at it more closely and saw it was a wallet, one so small I thought at first glance it was a child’s toy. I picked it up and when I got back to my bicycle, opened it and looked through it. To my surprise, I saw a twenty-dollar bill, then another, and another. Then I came upon a hundred-dollar bill, then another, and another. When I counted all the money, I realized I was holding $500 in my hand. That would be a lot of money today, but it was 1963, a time when that much money was enough to buy a decent used car, among other things a 13 year old boy might want to consider owning someday.
There were about a half dozen papers that remained in my basket for the customers between the church and East Center Street. But instead of delivering their papers, I hopped on my bike and headed back down Spruce Street toward the address I had found in the wallet. I got to the house and knocked on the door several times but there was no answer. I finally walked away not quite sure what I should do next. Suddenly a car turned abruptly into the driveway, and I saw a woman staring angrily at my bike blocking her way. She looked at me with a scowl that quickly changed into an expression of astonishment when she saw the wallet I was carrying. She jumped out of her car and ran toward me asking me where I had found it. I told her what had happened, and she explained to me that she had placed the wallet on top of the car when she had helped her son get in his seat and then had forgotten it. She thanked me over and over and took some money out of the wallet to give me. She promised she would call my parents to tell them what an honest boy they were raising and would call the Herald to tell them what I had done. She also promised she would soon give me more money as a reward, but I told her that wouldn’t be necessary. Perhaps that’s the reason why she never gave me more than the four dollars she handed to me that day in her driveway. I thanked her for it before I pedaled back up Spruce Street to finish my paper route.
I remember my parents being upset that the woman, Mrs. Merz, hadn’t been more generous in rewarding me. As she said she would do, she called the Herald’s office to tell them what I had done, but I never saw or heard from her again. Still, I felt good about doing the right thing for its own sake. Evidently, I must have learned a lesson or lessons about living that way at home or in church or school, but I don’t remember just where or when.
David James Madden