March 29, 2024

Locked out

I usually step into the garage with Ginnie as she takes off for her early morning commute to Ottumwa. I tell her to look both ways before pulling out onto the highway, to watch out for deer and to text me when she arrives at work. She has humorously translated these instructions into silly hand signals: for looking both ways at the highway, she pretends she’s holding the steering wheel, while rapidly turning her head; for watching out for deer, she holds two fingers by her temple, like antlers; and for texting me, she finger punches the palm of her hand.

This particular morning of which I’m speaking was no different than the rest. We kissed goodbye, Ginnie went through her pantomime, and she drove off into the cold, dark morning. I turned to go back into the house, and the door was locked. No problem, I’ll just call Ginnie and have her come back with the key. Fortunately, I had my cell phone. When I heard, “Your call has been forwarded to an automatic recording device,” a sinking feeling hit me in the gut. I left a forlorn message, “Come back, I’m locked out!”

We had been having trouble with the garage-door opener. It doesn’t want to close the door when the wind is strong, which, in the country, is far too often. I had left the garage door open during the night with the intent of working on it in the morning. Therefore, I had locked the inside door to the house, something I normally don’t do since we have an attached garage. I told myself to be sure and unlock the door before stepping out into the garage in the morning. Famous last thoughts.

So, here I am in my PJ’s, in the garage, and it’s 32 degrees. A thousand thoughts ran through my head. “Ah, ha!” There is a combination lock to the kitchen door. “Oh, what is that four-digit number?” I tried to remember. The previous owners of the house had set the combination. We hardly ever use that door.Therefore the order of the digits is easy to forget. Fortunately, I had a pair of insulated coveralls and a stocking cap hanging in the garage. I pulled them on and went outside and tried what I thought was the combination. No luck. In fact, in trying multiple sets of digits, the combination lock, “thinking” there might be an intruder, shut down completely. “Dagnabit!”

I walked around the outside of the house in my coveralls and slippers. The house was buttoned up tight. Through the window, I could see Morning Joe on the TV. The house never looked so inviting. But the only way I was going to get in was by breaking a window or smashing down a door, something I was loath to do. I saw Buddy in his pen, wagging his tail, wondering what I was doing outside. I brought him into the garage with me and we cuddled up in a corner, like a homeless man with his dog. To keep my hands warm, I slid them under his soft belly. Buddy licked my face and looked at me like, “What in the heck is going on?”

In an hour, if her phone was working, Ginnie would text me. She would have to come home again with her key. Jeez. If her phone wasn’t working, I was stuck in the garage until she got home. It is a good half mile to a neighbor’s house. Buddy whined. I went through my litany of prayers: The Lord’s Prayer, The Serenity Prayer, The 23 Psalm, The Third-Step Prayer, over and over again. Not really fox-hole prayers, but close enough.

I was drifting off when my phone beeped. It was Ginnie’s text. I called her. She had the combination to the kitchen door in her purse. I tried it. It worked. I was in! Home never felt so good. Thank you God for saving me from myself! Ginnie has a new hand signal. She jiggles her hand, then circles one ear with her index finger. It’s called, “Check the door, silly!”

Contact Curt Swarm at 319-217-0526
or email him at curtswarm@yahoo.com