Each time I enter the house from the back deck, it crosses my mind. I perform the task at least six or seven times daily; it’s Ellie’s portal to the potty.
It’s not a fancy door. It’s functional, swings well, and closes tightly. I participated in the installation. Oh, I’ve installed doors before, a couple all by my lonesome. But that was during the new construction phase at the camp in the woods. It was nearly thirty years ago.
Installing the door when it’s new construction is pretty simple, as long as all is level and plumb. I had much help when I built the camp in the woods. The guys from work dropped everything to close it in before winter set in. That’s why it was level and plumb in the first place.
I have great friends. Some, even, that I have lost track of since the cabin went up. But this is about my door. Well, two doors.
I’d been swinging an unsound door for years; it was French. Technically, it was only half French—a single door. The glass-paned egress was plumb worn out. I called Larry. I left a message because he never picks up.
“Larry, I don’t need you to be here when I install the new door, but I need to know you are in the area in case I run into trouble. I’m not much of a carpenter.”
Three minutes later, my phone rang. “Let me grab some tools, and I’ll come down. See you in twenty.”
The removal of the old door was typical of Larry. After the reciprocating saw detached the fasteners by abrasive force, he yelled, “Grab it right there and yank while I push. Put your purse down.”
With some finagling, we got the door in, caulked, and put up the outer trim, and I installed the hardware. It now swings like Sammy Sosa.
I bought Larry’s breakfast the following week. That’s all he wanted: sausage and eggs, home fries, coffee. If I had found a tradesman, and they bothered to call back and show up, it would have cost me five hundred bucks. Larry looked like he made five hundred bucks as he dipped his buttered toast into the yolk. I feigned disgust at the cost but paid the tip, too.
Since that day, we enter with a light push every time I come back from the yard, across the deck, and into the house. There is nary a struggle. Ellie can nudge it open with her muzzle when I’m not quick enough to allow her entry. I have since put up a storm door; it truly sealed the deal.
I can holler through the summer screen for Ellie to “get back here” when she sneaks off as I refill her water bowl at the kitchen sink. I sometimes yell out the door, even when I can’t see her, before she attempts to sneak off to chase the squirrels, merely to let her know I might be watching.
It’s such a minor thing: the door. When I swing it, I remember the colloquy between Larry and me. I recall going to the shed searching for a thirty-six-inch piece of pressure treated two by four as Larry thought it senseless to go to the store for a new piece of lumber; “You’ve got to have one around here somewhere,” he said.
When I shut it, I’m thankful for a few seconds. It’s just a door. But it represents the blessing of all the good friends I’ve made.
This past autumn, I installed a similar door at the ground level, just off the driveway. I called Larry. He didn’t answer. I left the same message and offered breakfast, hoping he’d be around if things went south. I didn’t hear from him. I struggled with the installation but got it done late in the day. I finished well after dark, to be completely transparent.
I saw Larry the following week. He claimed he was away up north and only got the message the following Monday.
“How’d it go, kid?”
“It doesn’t open quite as smoothly as the one we put in together, but it works well.”
“Good,” was all he said.
I felt like Ralph Macchio when Pat Morita allowed him to fail at some tasks to teach him resilience and build confidence.
I didn’t buy him breakfast.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
*Thanks for your support through the BuyMeACoffee app! You all know who you are. For the regular contributors of the “Royal Order of Dooryard Visitors,” I will change the group’s name to “Dooryard Nation” in the coming weeks. Just an FYI. Thank you for all your generosity. Your donations keep the website and blog alive and allow a Mope from Maine to write full-time. Between books, you keep this train-a-running. I cannot thank you all enough. TC