Relaxing at home in Urbanna
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| by Mary Wakefield Buxton |
One is they can’t resist grass, the more exposure the better. They satisfy this fancy by either playing golf or riding mowers all day long, cutting and re-cutting their grass.
One day last week the garage door suddenly wouldn’t open. No big deal. Women could care less about such things.
But to my husband it was just short of catastrophe because the grass was growing and he had to get to his rider mower. A man denied access to his rider mower is a man without a country, a drug addict without a fix… because when the urge to cut grass strikes, he has to cut grass or die.
“I’m going to open that garage door!” he said appearing before me with a variety of tools: crowbar, hammer and axe. After some commotion the tools were soon dismissed and he moved on to banging on the door with his two fists. The door still wouldn’t budge. Next came an expert series of well-placed kicks, the idea being that a kick placed exactly in the right spot would cause the door to magically pop open.
“Shouldn’t you call someone to help you, dear?” I asked from my chair on the patio with the dogs. It was a very hot day. That crazy suggestion was quickly rejected. Why call someone for help when you know you can open the garage door with just one more kick?
No luck. Chip then picked up a brick and punched out one of the glass windows. He climbed up a ladder and went in head first while all the time holding onto a beam on the garage ceiling. The plan apparently was to swing through the open space rather like an orangutan moves from tree to tree in the jungle.
“That looks dangerous, dear,” I called approaching the garage. A woman can better supervise a project when she is right next to a man. I heard a terrible wrenching sound as the beam gave way followed by a shout as he went crashing down onto the shards of broken glass on the garage floor.
“Are you all right, dear?” I asked sticking my head in the open window. He stood up, thankfully, I’m much too young to be a widow, but he looked perfectly frightful; his glasses were askew, blood was streaming down his head, arms and legs, and bits of glass clung to his shirt, which was drenched in perspiration. That’s when it struck him that he was now locked inside the hot garage and still the garage door would not budge.
Never fear. With renewed relish he attacked the door and before long all four sides of the garage were shaking as if a bull were unloosed inside with him. Finally the top panel of the garage door collapsed outward and hung feebly on its hinges. He stared furiously out at me and the dogs. That’s when I heard Navy language.
“It’s too hot for this project, so please just come out,” I pleaded.
“And how would you suggest that I do that, my dear?” he asked with a terrible look on his face.
“Well, I’m going to call Jim Ray. Maybe he can saw open a door for you to exit safely.”
“I don’t need any help!” he replied, which illustrates another odd trait men have—they can never accept help. Never. More banging as he attacked the steel runners on each side of the door with his trusty hammer.
“I’m going to call the rescue squad if you don’t come out!” I said—for wouldn’t a woman do exactly that if she were locked inside a garage? He was also opposed to that reasonable suggestion. I suppose he imagined being in headlines in the Sentinel next week with a photograph of him being carted away strapped to a gurney with his wife and dogs weeping at his side.
When I pointed out the simple logic that a stuck garage door on the outside would also be a stuck garage door from the inside, he gave up. Pushing the rider mower against the window, he climbed out the window, feet first this time, onto the ladder and safely to the ground.
“Never even think of calling the rescue squad for a stuck garage door!” he shouted as he went limping off to the shower.
“Yes, dear,” I responded; two simple words every wife needs to use frequently, if she wants to stay married while relaxing at home in Urbanna.
(Note: Chip finally opened the garage door the next day by removing the jammed wheel in one of the bent tracts.)
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Editor’s note: Mary Wakefield Buxton will take the summer off and her column will return in September. For more stories about life in Middlesex look for her latest book, “Middlesex Memories,” at the Sentinel office or area bookstores.
