A week ago, the entire extended family drove up to Ice House Reservoir to spend the Labor Day weekend camping. 16 people spread out over three campsites for five days of campfires, food, drink, and loud conversations; it’s a tradition we have been following for more than 20 years.
Before driving up to the campsite for the weekend, my wife was going to work for half of the day on Thursday. I would load up the truck and trailer with firewood and enough food and supplies to keep all 16 campers fed and alive for five days, then when my wife got home in the afternoon, we would drive up into the hills to meet up with the rest of the family.
That was the plan.
As we all know, plans are only perfect on paper right before real life gets in the way.
Thursday morning, my wife woke me up from a sound sleep to tell me we had a problem. Sitting up and trying to figure out why I wasn’t still unconscious, I heard her say,
“I don’t know what happened. The garage door isn’t working. I think it’s broken. I have to go to work now. Bye!”
Then I was alone in our bedroom wondering how I was going to explain to a group of upset campers that their supplies for the weekend were all trapped in my garage with my truck.
Why is it that I only get bad news first thing in the morning? If I’m awake before my alarm goes off, it’s always because something or someone is broken, about to explode, sick, or actively on fire. Why can’t, just once, I wake up to news like:
“Honey! Get up! We just won the lottery!”
Or maybe:
“Hey dad, get up! I just rented an apartment. I need you to help me move out of your house!”
But no. I’m never that lucky.
I woke up, threw on some clothes, and wandered out into the garage. I discovered that one of the four heavy-duty springs that lifts and lowers the door had broken apart. I tried disconnecting the garage door from the opening mechanism and raising it manually, but the door is a custom-built, barn-style metal door that weighs about two-hundred and fifty pounds. It didn’t budge.
The truck – and five days-worth of food and firewood – was not going anywhere soon.
I went back in the house and found one of the cats sitting in the hallway, staring at me with a look that clearly said, “I thought you were leaving. Why are you still here?”
To be fair, I believe that is the only expression the cat is capable of making.
I ignored the cat’s rude behavior and grabbed the phone while beginning a search online for garage door repair companies. The first company I called told me they were much too busy to help before Monday morning. That was too late. By Monday morning, there would be a large group of people up in the mountains eating dirt and tree bark while planning how long they would torture me before allowing me to die.
I tried another company. This one didn’t even pick up the phone when I called. I left a message for them to call me as soon as possible, (just FYI, I still have not heard back from them two weeks later) then moved on down the list to company number 3. This time, I finally had some luck. The owner of the company picked up and said that he could be over in about an hour and would be happy to replace the garage door springs.
True to his word, less than an hour later, a work truck pulled into my driveway and a very friendly gentleman by the name of Nick stepped out. Less than two hours later, I had a working garage door and our family camping trip was saved.
I thanked Nick profusely for coming out on such short notice, and he smiled and told me it was no problem. He was glad he could help. Then he handed me a bill for seven-hundred and fifty dollars.
Apparently, garage door springs are made of gold or some other precious metal. That, or they can only be forged in the volcanic depths of Mordor. I can’t think of any other reason that four springs would cost almost a thousand bucks.
I almost told him to take his springs back and rebreak the door, but I didn’t have time to argue about the price. I was still under a deadline and needed to get myself up to Ice House. So, instead of following my first impulse of curling up in the corner in the fetal position and pretending everything would go away if I ignored it long enough, I pulled out the checkbook and wrote a check for more money than I paid for my first car.
The check may or may not have bounced by now, but that is a problem for another day.
I finished loading the truck, hooked up to the trailer and, as soon as my wife arrived at home, we took off for the campgrounds. Although it was a rocky start, the trip itself actually went pretty smoothly. Everyone had a good time, and there was plenty to eat and (more importantly) drink.
We arrived back home on Monday, dirty and tired, but in good spirits after enjoying a pleasant weekend with the whole family. It was good to get away, but it was also nice to be home.
As I walked into the house, I found the cat in the hallway staring at me with a look on her face that clearly said, “I thought you were leaving. Why are you still here?”
.
.
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