Walter Pond, cont'd.

There is a scene of American life familiar to most; it occurs in the evening of a long day, a harried working mother trying to cook and serve dinner for her energetic young, the TV's blaring, homework scattered on the kitchen table, chaos reigns. Soon after the phone was answered in Walter Pond's house, I knew that this was the scene I had interrupted with my strange and bothersome request.
"May I speak to Walter Pond, please?" (sound of pots clanging together, kids screaming, water running."
He's not here!
"Can I leave a message?"
Yeah, I guess you better, because he's not going to be home until really late.
"My name is Megan and I'm calling from Maine."
Yep.
"I have an old photo album that lists his name and an address in West Haven."
Okay.
"I'm wondering if maybe it belongs to him or his father or grandfather and if so, I'd like to get it back to him."
Okay.
"Can I leave you my number?"
Sure, go ahead.

I wondered as I gave her my contact information whether she was actually writing it down. I mean, who could blame her, it was a strange request and she clearly had her hands full. As I hung up, I thought, okay, at least I tried. I had a feeling that even if he got the message Walter Pond wasn't going to be calling back. A week has gone by and he hasn't.