Why did you do that Woman?

Now, here’s a memory….

Sometime in our distance past we were traveling with Tom, my old college roommate, and his saintly wife Mary. To know Tom is to love Tom but at times he can be a piece of work, but a better man would be hard to find.  

We had all been in Italy for a goodly stay but had since moved on to Switzerland. We were finally settling down in Murren a mountaintop village that would enable us to hike in the high-country mountains above the Lauterbrunnen Valley. All across Italy Tom had taken pictures of this, that, and everything in between to the point of being a nuisance but he assured us that he had captured the “real Italy”. Recently Tom had been hard at work capturing the “real Switzerland.” It is important to know for this story to make sense that saintly Mary was not a photographer but somehow she had been designated as “special assistant” to the photographer, and in that role she was assigned the important task of carrying the rather large camera bag. 

Tom and I were in the midst of a less than friendly competition in search of the best cup of hot milk chocolate in Switzerland. I found on the edge of the village a small bakery and dairy that offered freshly made sweet cakes and hot milk chocolate that I was confident would force Tom to concede my victory. I had been guaranteed by the shop’s proprietor that the milk had been walking the mountains that very morning. 

We ordered two large cups. Tom, grumpy in defeat, admitted these were the winners and ordered two more. Not one to gloat I treated my friend to an apple tart. 

We were outside on the patio wiping away the last crumbs when the girls approached. They each had their own special moments proudly displaying beautiful wool scarfs. Tom asked his assistant about the whereabouts of the camera bag. 

In that moment the entire south side of the mountain was cast in doom and gloom. The celebratory feeling we had for our hot milk chocolate and tarts disappeared. The women looked at Tom then at each other and realized that the bag had been left. But where? 

Tom became very expressive. His camera was lost. His film was lost. 

After a round of moans Tom said to his assistant, and I believe his ex-wife-to-be, “Why did you do that woman?” 

Here, I’m not sure, but I seem to recall Tom asking that question three or four times. 

Thinking the moment needed relief Deed took saint Mary and bolted back into the village to search for the bag leaving me alone with a man in the third stage of depression. 

Finally I said to Tom, “Now listen Tom. Do you see Deed walking back into the village? Well Tom, I can guarantee you that we will never see her again unless she comes back with the bag and your camera. Do you hear what I just said. She will never return without your stuff.” 

Tom started to regain some semblance of a normal tourist but dismissed my assurances. My confidence in Deed returning with the bag was total. I had put her reputation on the line. I knew she would not come back until she had Tom’s kit. 

For the next hour or so Tom was capable of only two or three comments repeated over and over again. None are suitable for print. 

More hot milk chocolate had lost its charm, even a plate of apple tarts was left on the table. 

If tarts don’t work how do you console the inconsolable? 

Finally, Deed, playing Mary Poppins, came dancing down the street leading our redeemed assistant who was waving the found camera bag. 

Tom turned to the plate of apple tarts. 

That night as we were getting ready for bed and I was curious to know what would happen if I said to Deed, --- In my best Tom-like voice, “Why did you do that woman?” 

My curiosity was more than satisfied.