Keynotes

At all times, dangling from my belt, I have at least 15 keys. About four are for the house and cars. I think the rest have something to do with work.

Downstairs, in a plastic small parts tray, I have about as many more. None of them fits anything of which I have any recollection. At some point, though, they must have been important enough to keep. Some of them are keys to old cars, and others might have been keys to houses or apartments; keys that should have been turned in to landlords but were the last thing on my mind at the time.

It's even probable that one or more of these keys was from a previous generation, meaningful to my parents and kept because they were in an interesting jar.

My parents were raised in small towns in Ontario where locking the house was considered the symptom of paranoia. I doubt if either of them ever carried a house key. Why would they need it? If their parents weren't home, the house was open, or, if not, there were relatives nearby where they could stay until the folks returned. Of course, things changed when they grew up and got on their own. Our front door had a deadbolt which I couldn't even turn until I was about ten years old. And it had two buttons inset into the edge of the doorframe to prevent anyone from being able to turn the keylock from the outside when they were inside. Paranoia flowered.

The car I pull up beside in the parking lot at work doesn't have keys. Along the upper lip of the door panel is a series of five numbered buttons. I have no idea how these are sequenced, or if you have to press more than one at the same time. I would surmise that in the unlikely event of an electrical failure, you might be walking home.

One website explains that for any given model and year of any car, a key for that car can open one in 50 of them. Given a parking lot big enough, there could be many cars that could be opened without breaking in. Some of us have had the experience of walking up to a car, putting in the key, and finding that it won't turn. Then we step back and realize, "That's not my car!"

Keys are a powerful metaphor. They are readily understood as symbols of power, permission and privilege. Lose a key and you are bereft of possessions and progress until you find it again. Find a key that is not labeled or familiar, and you have found a useless chunk of metal. Call a locksmith and you'll find out how much a key is actually worth.

And so, I am chained to my keys. There are so many they jingle with every step I take, which may explain how Kaboodle knows it's me after all. I only use one or two of them, only two or three times a day. The others are there to make noise: to let me know that I'm fully dressed. If you don't hear me coming, it's because I've had to go back again. I forgot my keys.