GARAGE DOOR BLUES

Garage Door Blues

There was a time when having a garage for your car was a luxury.  In those kinder and simpler days, people were happy as clams lifting the garage door, backing the car out, and then manually closing the garage door.  It was simply routine. 

Somewhere along the way, people got sluggish.  Maybe it was the culmination of many snowy, rainy days (inevitably resulting in bad hair days.)  Perhaps it happened after years of slipping on ice, freezing one’s fingers, or forgetting the parking brake only to notice your cunning vehicle and screaming children gliding down the driveway...  Whatever the impetus, automatic garage doors were invented.

To the poor unfortunates who street-park and to those who don’t even own a car, my forthcoming complaint may sound petty.  However, to the rest of you who daily zoom effortlessly through your garage entryways, make no mistake. I harbor distinct envy. 

My garage door is a fair-weather friend.  In the summer months, I too am fortunate to glide with ease through the doorway.  But for some unidentified reason, when the temperatures drop below 45, my garage door develops an alternate personality. 

I am in no way mechanically inclined, but I have some theories about this problem.  For a while I thought that the aged rubber edges were becoming so stiff from cold, they were catching on the sensors and forcing the door back up.  Those dumb photoelectric eyes that mount on the door track are supposed to be keeping unsuspecting people and creatures from being crushed under a closing door.  But I think my garage door’s electric eyes have gone blind.  Or at minimum, they are in need of some serious corrective lenses.  And so my second theory is based on the fact that in its blindness, my garage door reverses at any passing whim lest it crush something it cannot see.  Stupid door. 

This suspected eye alignment issue results in my daughter and me spending a ridiculous amount of winter time at the top of our driveway hitting the remote control button ad nauseaum.  When we finally can’t take it anymore (or have become late for school/work), one of us gets out of the car and attempts to yank furiously on the garage door in perfect time with the one who is in the car feverishly pressing the worn remote control button.  We are a well-oiled, albeit slightly demented team of two; efficient, yet crazed by our circumstances.  I’m sure the neighbors are amused.

Well, we’d become complacent in our effortless journey out of the garage each morning as the weather had been beautiful for many months.  But yesterday morning while standing outside in the January-feeling briskness of our October morning, we could see our breath.  Our holiday of garage-cooperation had ended for another season.  I mentally prepared for battle and allowed an extra five minutes for door-frustration exercises when I got out of bed this morning. 

So the door opened, and as we were entering the car we heard an unexpected jingling/ringing sound.  Like a small bell or gong.  Turns out it was two metal washers, falling from heaven, or in this case thrown like a gauntlet from the maddening door.  The offending rings landed on my car and on the cement floor of the garage.  Hmmm. This was a new development.  I wondered aloud about the chances of making it out of the garage and continuing on our way to school without further incident.  I started the car and backed out.  As I pressed the remote button, I held my breath.  As usual on a chilly day, the door caught at about 12 inches from the top and began to reverse.  I stopped it with my deft and practiced trigger-finger, and attempted to coax it down with another well-timed press of the button.  The descent began, only this time it involved a snapping and popping sound.  Aubrey and I winced in duet as a horizontal metal bar zinged off the inside of the door and waved its aluminum arm at us in what can only be described as arrogant triumph.  Did I mention how much I hate that door?

We exited the car and planned our next move.  While standing atop the upturned recycling bin, Aubrey and I attempted our best coercion techniques.  Despite our intimidating stance and incessant pulling, the dim-witted garage door remained fixed in position; at about 1/3 closed.  It would not go up and it would not go down.  And so we left our house with its mouth gaping open.  And as Aubrey so deftly put it, the garage was now at the mercy of passersby, and at solemn risk for plundering. 

I phoned Jim because thankfully, house maintenance falls distinctly in his arena and not mine. This was not the first time in our happy union that I’ve interrupted him in a meeting to share the fine news that something domestic was awry.  I added ‘Happy Anniversary’ for good measure, as today marks the 26^th year of bothersome home repairs.