I make no attempt to deceive you, but confess in all honesty that when I set off so long ago on a bright fall morning, to enroll at the University of Minnesota, I would have preferred not to have been taking with me my father’s cherished cowhide suitcase.

Thursday, September 13, 2001

I make no attempt to deceive you, but confess in all honesty that when I set off so long ago on a bright fall morning, to enroll at the University of Minnesota, I would have preferred not to have been taking with me my father’s cherished cowhide suitcase.

Preferred not to have – ? I would have preferred to have wrapped such items as hadn’t been packed in my trunk into a pillow slip, tied it up with a rope and peasant-like carried it on my head.

Not at all enthusiastic about my going to the U – he had wanted me to go to some quiet little teachers’ college – my father for weeks ahead pointed out the dangers of a big city like Minneapolis.

When the time came for me to leave, I think he had fewer qualms about my going to the big, wicked city than he had about his cowhide suitcase going there. There had been a rash of luggage stealing at the Minneapolis station and he cautioned me over and over not to leave the suitcase unattended for a moment.

&uot;Keep your eye on it every moment,&uot; he admonished. &uot;I paid good money for that suitcase seven years ago when things were cheaper. It’s a fine case, genuine cowhide, and not a scuff on it. Guard it with your life.&uot;

Well, the suitcase and I arrived intact, and spent a tranquil three months in the dorm before it was time for us to return to Albert Lea for our Christmas holiday. When we went to the depot to buy our train ticket in preparation for the trip home I was more than mindful of defending the suitcase.

There was a long and slow moving line before me at the ticket window. Nervous about the suitcase, I decided to stand on it. It was an extremely stout case and at that period of my life I was extremely skinny, so it wasn’t really a bad decision.

Unfortunately then as now I was a bit on the absent-minded side. Gazing around me in search of potential luggage thieves, what was my horror to see removed from me by only about four other people, a swarthy sneaky-looking Al Capone type of man. Worse, right next to him beside his right foot was a cowhide suitcase, identical to the one I’d forgotten I was standing on.

&uot;Guard it with your life,&uot; my father had said. I didn’t hesitate. With a scream that must have been passed down to me from generations of Gaelic warriors, I rushed forward seized the man’s suitcase and had he not also seized the handle would have borne it away.

As I said the station was crowded and immediately was on my side. &uot;He has my suitcase,&uot; I said.

&uot;I have my own suitcase,&uot; he protested, not letting go of the handle. The crowd’s mood was getting ugly. Two or three men drew up to him.

&uot;Give the little girl back her suitcase,&uot; one of them said in a threatening manner. &uot;Now,&uot; said another with even more menace. The swarthy one began to take on an air of desperation. Then he glanced back to where I had been standing.

&uot;Look,&uot; he said in some relief, &uot;Isn’t that your suitcase back there, sis?&uot;

It was a horrible moment. I’d forgotten that I’d been standing on it. I murmured the best apology I could and went back and stood on it again.

The first chance I had when I got home I searched through a good will store and found a quite satisfactory valise, the kind that can be enlarged for greater space. It was leather, too, but considerably more beat up then my father’s. What endeared it to me was that it had foreign labels all over it. It had a name tag on it, too, &uot;D. Boone.&uot;

I don’t know whether the foreign labels or the name tag produced the most joy in my dorm mates. They were generally agreed that it looked old enough to have been carried by Daniel Boone. I loved it and was secure in the knowledge that no one would be likely to steal it from me. Not ever.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.