One of the quirky things about this house I am renting is that every time I come home from work, I must play that garage door opener like a castanet – click, click, click, clickety-click, click, click, click.
All right, maybe that is not so funny to the average reader, but I know you are NOT an average reader. You have a good imagination and an inquisitiveness that just won’t stop. Well, at least I do.
There I am, sitting in the car in the driveway, in front of the closed garage door. I reach for the door opener. I aim it towards the solid part of the door. Click click.
I move it in the direction of the little windows. Click, click, click, click.
Again, nothing. I aim it towards the middle of the door. Clickety-clickety.
Nothing once more.
I aim it at the upper windows of the garage door. Click.
Now run this scenario quickly in your mind. Add a little finesse in the wrist movement, hear me say, “What the heck?” about seven times, and “Ugh” about fifty.
One thing I am learning about living here in this part of the country is that everything moves in its own time.
Looks like garage door openers think so, too.
©2022, excerpt from “Tales from Yodel-O Land”