Affixed to the cabinet alongside our refrigerator, secured
by a small Velcro patch, sits an innocuous little gray box. It’s the remote
control for our electric garage door opener, not very imposing or even notable
to the casual observer.
And yet… this little battery operated device opens more than
the door to our garage. For me, it’s a key to a treasure trove of happy
memories…
Our raised ranch home was shared by my brood of 5 living
upstairs and my in-laws who occupied the lower half. I’ll give my wife’s
parents credit; Bill & Gert were the picture of patience when it came to
adapting their September years lifestyle to the often chaotic activities that came
with raising three children and an infinite series of pets that included dogs,
an albino boa constrictor, two cats, and numerous hamsters…not to mention a bat
(the flying kind) that my children brought home one afternoon. Richard,
pounding out an overabundance of teen hormones on an 80 pound punching bag,
would cause seismic reverberations throughout the house. Gert was famously
phobic about snakes and Jen’s boa constrictor caused no end of lively
discussions. And then there were the doggie deposits that seemed to gain a
whole new revitalized fragrance when Bill would inadvertently run over a hidden
pile of poo with the mower.
But I was talking about the remote control, wasn’t I?
Bill & Gert’s prior home, the one that they had
blissfully lived a solo existence in, had come equipped with an electric garage
door opener, a feature that was painfully lacking in the home we now shared. Anyone who has ever attempted to open their
garage during a torrential summer thunderstorm, or one of our New England-style
winter nor’easters will attest that an electric garage door, while it may not
be a “necessity”, is certainly highly desirable. At least until you have a
power failure.
But that’s another story.
So Bill and I agreed to split the cost and installed a
Craftsman opener we had purchased at Sears. The whole installation process went
remarkably smoothly considering Bill was left-handed where I favored my right.
To those of you who are not experienced in multi-dexterous interaction, I can
tell you that left-handed people don’t think the same way as right-handed
folks.
Not that they’re wrong, mind you, just… different.
Add to that, Bill was one generation removed from being
British, with his parents having come across the pond just a year or two before
he was born. As for me, I was born and bred in Kentucky (the land of beautiful
horses and fast women) from a mongrel line of Scot/Dutch/German descendants
(all of which have a disagreeable history with the Brits). Bill was of course,
a member of what journalist Tom Brokaw referred to as “The Greatest Generation”.
While I had my questionable coming of age in southern California, not
Haight-Ashbury mind you, but still, it was
the 60’s. Needless to say, where Bill would select a crescent wrench, I’d be
grabbing a socket wrench. When I tried to finesse a part into place, his idea
was to use a bigger hammer. And yet, somehow we managed to not only refrain
from killing each other, but to become fast friends in the process… despite my
wicked and shameless sense of humor.
It was only a week or so after the opener’s installation
that it began to malfunction. Press the remote button and the door would start
to rise only to stop halfway up. Try to close it, and the darn thing would come
half way down only to pause in its descent and then go back up. We figured out
that the seasonal temperatures had changed, causing the metal door runners to
expand or contract. This put too much tension on the opener and triggered its
safety switches. Not a big thing and easily adjustable. So I left Bill to do
the adjusting. Dragging out the ladder and an assortment of wrenches,
screwdrivers and other paraphernalia, Bill spent about 20 minutes tweaking and
adjusting the guides and the sensors until he was satisfied that all was
operating smoothly. From my kitchen window, I watched as Bill put the tools and
ladder away, walked to the front & center of the driveway, about ten feet
outside the garage, raised his hand with a flourish, aimed his remote control,
and pressed the button.
With a motorized whirr and a metallic clatter, the garage
door obliging descended to the closed position. Bill, eminently pleased with his
handiwork, began to turn and was in mid-stride back to the house…
When I reached out to my remote, (remember the one velcro’d
to my cabinet by the fridge? Yep! That’s the one!), and I pressed the button.
The door, which had hit bottom and appeared to be happily at
rest suddenly reanimated itself, rising like Dracula from the grave, apparently
of its own accord.
Bill, who you’ll remember was in mid-turn and mid-stride
back to the house, almost tripped over his own feet as he spun about to watch
in wonder as this formerly inanimate object was seemingly coming to life on its
own.
He stood there a moment, staring at the garage…thinking. Once
again, he extended his arm raising the remote with what I must admit was quite
an imperious manner. Pressing the remote’s button again, but this time with
that English air of authority, he commanded the door to close….and it did, (almost).
Until (grinning from ear to ear), I pressed the button on my
remote again.
I am SO going to rot
in Hell for this!
Bill stood there in amazement as the door once again began
to rise. Holding the remote with one hand and scratching his head with the
other, he then looked up at the clouds doing that “God, why are you doing this
to me” prayer. In the kitchen, I’m laughing so hard that I can barely stand.
Now Bill’s wheels are turning in high gear. He looks at the
remote and briefly considers that it might be misfiring. So back into the
garage to get a screwdriver he goes. I watch him in the garage as he disassembles
and reassembles the remote, and then returns to his command spot in the
driveway, raises his arm, and once again commands the door to close.
Just for variety, this time I let the door come down only
half way before I stop it with my remote.
If there had been any room for doubt, it was now more than
obvious that Bill was thoroughly pissed off. His eyes have bugged out to an
alarming level and his normally pale face was beet red. Storming into the
garage, he drug out the ladder once again and set about inspecting the door
runners on either side of the garage. Then, he proceeded to spray lubricant
over every inch of the runners.
Then, while still inside the garage, he hit the button
again.
As the door descended those last few inches, I envisioned my
father in-law peering at the door mechanisms, trying to identify whatever the
malfunction might be should the door decide to rise again.
So of course, this time I didn’t trigger my remote, leaving him standing in the garage was
just too tempting.
It took a minute or two. But eventually, the door once again
began to rise. But since I had him trapped in the garage for the moment, I
figured, “What the Hell” and hit my remote again to freeze the door as it reached
the midpoint. This action was immediately followed by not so equal but opposite
reaction characterized by a prolific string of expletives emanating from the depths
of the garage. Then the door once again descended as Bill pressed his button again.
Having effectively extended his exile to the garage, I was
laughing so hysterically that I started to tear up and I was in serious danger
of becoming incontinent. Meanwhile, Bill had commenced crashing about in the
garage, doing God knows what to that poor innocent electric door opener.
Finally, in a rare moment of charitability, I grabbed my
remote and stepped out onto the porch where Bill would be able see me. After an
extended period of banging around in the garage, Bill pressed his button and
emerged from the garage. It was at this moment… this oh so memorable moment, I
innocently asked, “Are you having problems with the door, Pop?”
Exasperated beyond reason, Bill explained that he didn’t
understand what the problem was, but the door opener must be faulty. And that we’d probably have to take it back to
Sears for a refund. To demonstrate, he once again raised the remote and pressed
the button.
Dutifully, the door began to descend…
At that moment, Bill turned to look at me, just as I raised
my own remote and pressed its button, stopping the door once again at the
midpoint.
Bill just stared at me with this blank expression.
It took a full 10 seconds for him to grasp what I had been
doing and that I was the source of his last 30 minutes of insanity.
“YOU SON OF A …” For the sake of his grandchildren, I won’t
repeat the words that poured from the mouth of this otherwise normally
agreeable, peaceful, pleasant man. But since I’m laughing (even now as I write
this), I have to admit I deserved every word of it.
As much as I treasure that memory, the crème de le crème
moment occurred about a week later when Bill figured out how he could get even
with me. Without telling anyone, he changed the code on the door opener and his
remote, (but not ours). Consequently, he could
operate the door but we couldn’t. He was in his element as he waited to take
his revenge. But the only thing he hadn’t considered was that I didn’t park in the garage! His
daughter did. So when the magic moment came, my wife, who was innocent in this
whole affair, was the recipient of Bill’s vengeance.
So now I sit looking at that remote control… that otherwise
mundane little device and remember. I’d like to say that was the end of the
arguably juvenile pranks I played on my father in-law. I’d like to say that I eventually
matured and never again had a laugh at his expense. I really would. But then,
there’s always the tennis ball, an otherwise mundane little toy...
But that’s another story.
