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Tuesday
March 16, 2010 Since 1922 |
Time was, keys were not needed
By Jim Finley
Contributor Published November 20, 2009 There was this major discussion going on – I don’t remember where or with whom, as we say in polite, correct society – about keys and security.
Talk was centering around security systems, and deadbolt locks, and keeping the bad guys at bay. Important stuff.
Car alarm systems never entered the conversation, but they could have. Most autos have them in modern ’09 America.
With criminals more brazen than ever – why is that? – we have become a people, and rightfully so, who pretty much barricade ourselves into our homes at night as we seek protection and safety.
Some folks even go so far as to place a sign in what would be an otherwise perfectly lovely yard warning would-be thugs that their house is protected by such-and-such alarm company. This pre-supposes that these stupid burglars can read.
The last thing I do before retiring, as they say in polite, correct society, is to conduct what I call a “Security Check.” It has become a ritual, because I, like you, am scared, too, even though heavily armed. (Note to would-be burglars, presupposing you can read: I have a quick trigger finger.)
My nightly routine goes something like this:
“Pick up your socks before you come to bed,” Wife Margie will command.
“Can’t,” I reply, “I’m doing the Security Check.”
(Well, it works.)
I go first to the back door. I open it, look out, and having not spotted any sleaze bucket criminal-types, shut the door hard and then turn the lock and the deadbolt. I proceed to give the door a tug to see if it is secured.
Satisfied, I repeat this dramatic crime-prevention practice at the front door.
I do this every night.
Wife Margie, meanwhile, has picked up my socks and jumped into bed (not with the socks).
Young people of the world, I am here to tell you that it wasn’t always this way. Not even close.
The conversation about security caused me to recall those days when Wife Margie and I were newlyweds and were living in our first rent house, equipped with one bedroom, for which we paid the staggering sum of $35 per month. That was every month, too.
We had house keys, of course, but it was nothing to run to the grocery store there in a place called Sweeny and leave the doors unlocked. Everyone did it in those days.
That $35-a-month castle was daughter Robin’s first home. But when son Scott was born we needed a larger place. So we made this major, major move – to the house just to the rear of our first home.
We didn’t even need a truck. We carried everything across our backyard. By hand and muscle.
Life was good, even if the rent had soared to $45 per month. That was every month, too.
I was in my first year as a young, dynamic newspaper guy at The Brazosport Facts. The future looked bright.
But here’s the thing. The man we rented from, a Joe somebody, never – as in never – gave us keys to that second house.
On principle, it was irritating, sure, and I called him about it. But we never got keys. And, frankly, it wasn’t something we worried about.
Heck, we’d travel to Kilgore, up in East Texas, for three or four days to visit Mama and Papa Finley, my grandparents, with the house unlocked. No big deal.
Try that today and they swipe the whole house.
Oh, and nobody ever worried about locking their cars. This is true. I swear by Gaston Chevrolet.
You’d pull up to church, the grocery store, the movies, and just go on in. No one thought about locking their vehicles.
Today? Wish I had stock in a security company.
Jim Finley is a retired managing editor for The Baytown Sun.
Contributor Published November 20, 2009 There was this major discussion going on – I don’t remember where or with whom, as we say in polite, correct society – about keys and security.
Talk was centering around security systems, and deadbolt locks, and keeping the bad guys at bay. Important stuff.
Car alarm systems never entered the conversation, but they could have. Most autos have them in modern ’09 America.
With criminals more brazen than ever – why is that? – we have become a people, and rightfully so, who pretty much barricade ourselves into our homes at night as we seek protection and safety.
Some folks even go so far as to place a sign in what would be an otherwise perfectly lovely yard warning would-be thugs that their house is protected by such-and-such alarm company. This pre-supposes that these stupid burglars can read.
The last thing I do before retiring, as they say in polite, correct society, is to conduct what I call a “Security Check.” It has become a ritual, because I, like you, am scared, too, even though heavily armed. (Note to would-be burglars, presupposing you can read: I have a quick trigger finger.)
My nightly routine goes something like this:
“Pick up your socks before you come to bed,” Wife Margie will command.
“Can’t,” I reply, “I’m doing the Security Check.”
(Well, it works.)
I go first to the back door. I open it, look out, and having not spotted any sleaze bucket criminal-types, shut the door hard and then turn the lock and the deadbolt. I proceed to give the door a tug to see if it is secured.
Satisfied, I repeat this dramatic crime-prevention practice at the front door.
I do this every night.
Wife Margie, meanwhile, has picked up my socks and jumped into bed (not with the socks).
Young people of the world, I am here to tell you that it wasn’t always this way. Not even close.
The conversation about security caused me to recall those days when Wife Margie and I were newlyweds and were living in our first rent house, equipped with one bedroom, for which we paid the staggering sum of $35 per month. That was every month, too.
We had house keys, of course, but it was nothing to run to the grocery store there in a place called Sweeny and leave the doors unlocked. Everyone did it in those days.
That $35-a-month castle was daughter Robin’s first home. But when son Scott was born we needed a larger place. So we made this major, major move – to the house just to the rear of our first home.
We didn’t even need a truck. We carried everything across our backyard. By hand and muscle.
Life was good, even if the rent had soared to $45 per month. That was every month, too.
I was in my first year as a young, dynamic newspaper guy at The Brazosport Facts. The future looked bright.
But here’s the thing. The man we rented from, a Joe somebody, never – as in never – gave us keys to that second house.
On principle, it was irritating, sure, and I called him about it. But we never got keys. And, frankly, it wasn’t something we worried about.
Heck, we’d travel to Kilgore, up in East Texas, for three or four days to visit Mama and Papa Finley, my grandparents, with the house unlocked. No big deal.
Try that today and they swipe the whole house.
Oh, and nobody ever worried about locking their cars. This is true. I swear by Gaston Chevrolet.
You’d pull up to church, the grocery store, the movies, and just go on in. No one thought about locking their vehicles.
Today? Wish I had stock in a security company.
Jim Finley is a retired managing editor for The Baytown Sun.