Thank Your Machinery
I’m not a big follower of supernatural phenomena. Or bent on viewing inanimate objects in anthropomorphic terms. Although I do talk to my lawnmower. And I always thank Siri, politely, when he helps me. But once in a while I’m forced to wonder.
Saturday I went to my daughter’s house to care for her cats, because she was out of town. I fed them, petted them, then exited the front door and locked it. When I had driven half a block away, I got those old OCD jitters that told me I should go back. I didn’t lock the door.
I didn’t believe me. Of course I locked the door. I had a brief argument with myself—and kept on driving.
When I got home, I discovered the key to my front door was gone. So was the key to my daughter’s house. Only my post office box key was still on the ring. (OMG! I should have listened to myself and gone back to check the door.)
I searched the car. My purse. The ground. My “flat tire bag” (satchel that contains water, a snack and a good book). No keys.
Quickly, I drove back to my daughter’s, thinking I’d dropped the keys in her front yard. I wanted to find them before somebody else did. But alas, no keys were on the ground. (But I did note that I had locked the door previously. My argument with myself was for naught.)
I drove home, broke into my own home, and found the back door key to my daughter’s house.
I drove back to my daughter’s, let myself in the back door, and pushed her sofa up against the front door—to thwart anybody who found the key and tried to enter.
I drove home thinking about who to call to get a new lock installed on my daughter’s front door. But before getting a locksmith involved, I needed to do one more thorough search.
I took everything out of the flat tire bag. Out of my purse. Out of the trash can in the car. I opened all the doors to my minivan and pulled things out, lifted floor mats, searched all the crevices. No keys.
They were gone.
Might as well close up the car. And decide whether I want to drive back to my daughter’s house in a while—just to check on it. Make it look lived in.
Except the automatic sliding door on one side wouldn’t close. I pushed the button—the door lurched forward, stopped, and slid back open. I tried the handle. Same reaction. I tried the button over the driver’s seat. No dice. How on earth am I going to drive to town? Not to mention I can’t leave the door wide open for all the neighborhood cats, armadillos, possums and raccoons. It simply must close.
Think like a minivan. There is something in the way. Something warning the door not to close. Except there wasn’t anything! The door’s path was clear! But I fiddled with the seat—moved it to and fro, in effort to signal to the door that all was well. And when the seat moved backward—LO! There were my keys. On the floor in the middle of the van. I don’t know how they got there. But the door knew!
I retrieved the keys—and had to close the door manually. It was reluctant, but finally allowed me to do so.
I thanked the door. Profusely.
Supernatural? I don’t know. But appreciate your machinery. Let it know you care.