When my husband first called to say he couldn't find his car, I wasn't really worried. Both in our 50s, he and I have misplaced cars before, usually in parking garages that circle around and you never know what floor you're on.

This time, though, Steve had parked on one of the narrow residential streets surrounding Oakland's medical buildings, where he had a doctor's appointment earlier that day.

I work in Oakland, so when Steve called to tell me that his car was missing, I said we could drive around in my car and look for it.

Cruising though the streets of Oakland, passing parked Porsches and Mercedes, we wondered why anyone would want a nine-year-old Subaru Forester with body putty protruding through its dulling green paint.

Someone must have, though, because the Forester was nowhere to be found. Steve spent the next several hours talking to the insurance company and filling out a police report while I returned to my office for a rather distracted afternoon of work.

The Forester, a nondescript hatchback with a large area for hauling cargo, would likely be used to fence stolen goods, the officer told Steve, certain that it wouldn't end up in a chop shop like the more expensive automobiles do.

"It'll probably show up in two or three days," the police officer said. "They usually do."

That was more than two weeks ago.

Driving home from Pittsburgh after work, I began to feel the complications from the day's events. Because the insurance company waits 25 days before settling a stolen-car claim, we would have to figure out how to get around with one less car. And there would be the deductible, which we had recently increased in an effort to save money. And then came the sinking feeling when we learned that the transmission we had put in the car last month would not alter the insurance settlement.

"That amount is usually based on the assigned value of the automobile," the insurance man explained matter-of-factly.

Feeling low, I busied myself around the house that evening, the soothing sounds of Norah Jones playing in the background. I made potato soup — comfort food — and loosened the soil around the tomato plants growing by a window on the south side of the house. There was no sun to help these little plants today, I thought, as I worked my index finger between the inch-high shoots. Still the plants grow, their tiny leaves turned toward the sky, capturing whatever light there is.

Later, I brushed my winter coat with a sticky roller, picking specks from the clingy black wool. With the coming of spring, I wanted to put it away for the winter. But before slipping a plastic cover over the coat, I jotted a note on a piece of paper and stuck it into one of the pockets. It read: "Cleaned this coat on April 11, a cold gray day. The day someone stole our Forester."

Always struggling to keep life's setbacks in perspective, I am reminded that the complications of losing a car will be long past the next time I slip on my winter coat.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.