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. 

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.

Nothing.

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.

Door opens.

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”

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