Breaking In

I was not allowed to have a key to get into our house. Dad thought that if I lost it and someone found it, they would be able to break in. No matter how many times Mom would say, “How would they know which house the key went to,” I was not allowed to have a key. Dad knew somehow the person who found the key would discover which house it went to, come in, and maybe even hurt us.

On the back patio, even before the screened-in addition, next to the back door of the house, sat a set of drawers. They looked like they had been salvaged from a remodel or just some drawers that were not used on the chicken ranch. They weren’t attached to anything. Just three deep drawers that Mom used for rags, a few tools like a hammer, screwdriver, and some sandpaper. There were some nails and screws, washers, and some other miscellaneous junk. It was a true junk drawer. The bottom drawer was where the dog food was kept.

I walked to and from school at a very early age. There were all kinds of things that could go wrong, but for some reason my parents didn’t seem to be worried about anything happening to me. Many times, Mom was with Grandma, shopping, having lunch, and hanging out in bars, so I walked home. Dad made sure things were locked up tight so no one could get into our house. Walking home didn’t bother me. It was a quiet time and I observed people’s homes, plants, and trees. This was still a very rural area and many houses were different from each other and ranged in age from one hundred years to the the present (midcentury modern). Our house was a 1940s cinder block house that looked like houses in the Arizona desert. It was built to last and, because of the cinder blocks, very cool in the summer.

It was about third grade when I had to break into my house the first time. The back screen door had a hook on it and the back door was locked. There was a key in the top draw by the back door. The hook on the screen was l-shaped and hooked into an eye screw, one part on the door and one part on the wood frame. Arriving home, I walked to the back of the house and pushed on the screen door. Smack, right back at me because the hook was on. Someone had locked it (Dad) and someone did not check it (Mom) before she left the house.

I slammed my fist at the door. No way could I get in. I dropped all my stuff that I had been carrying and walked around the grass area by my swing set. I mumbled to my self, “How could they lock the door…again. What are they afraid of?” Dad had locked himself out of the back patio at times and would have to yell at Mom to come and let him in.

There was a meter box at the sidewalk, just under the kitchen window. I thought I could step up on the box and get in that way, but the window was latched. And how would I get up to get into that? I banged my head gently on the screen door. “What were they thinking?”