With one Accord we locked the doors.

The other night, OGADE had a drumming gig at a retirement community in Oxford, Ohio. The Knolls, as they are known, is a lovely, modern complex, complete with all the features and conveniences that make for a gracious denouement of life's struggles, assuming one has the means to afford it.

In any case, the performance was followed by a concensus that we repair to a local watering hole for whatever refreshment we might deem pleasing to our palates. J and I were able to park in front of the place, and we shortly ordered our entree and made our way to the patio. As it turned out, the cooks made a small error and duplicated the order, so we were able to share our choice with others of our group at no extra charge.

Suffering from sciatica as she sought to sit at the picnic table, J dispatched me to the car for her folding chair, which sports a large cushion. I went around to the side of the vehicle where I had stored the chair.

Imagine my mixed feelings of shame, anguish and frustration as I peered in the window of the unyielding door, spotting my keys reposing in full, tantalizing view on the rear seat.

It is J's habit to lock everything. Michael Moore, in his documentary "Bowling for Columbine", discovered that Canadians hardly lock their houses, let alone their cars.

I reconstructed the events in this fashion: I had laid my keys on the seat because I had both hands full at the time, retrieving my wallet from a bag on the floor. I momentarily busied myself with checking for tissues, wallet and credit card.

Meanwhile, J had extricated herself from the front seat, pressed down the lock button, and moved on to the restaurant. Satisfied that I had everything I needed, having no reliable short-term memory to speak of, I closed the door. Oh, the power, the synchonization, the irrevocability of electric locks.

Once the error became public knowledge, many helpful suggestions were offered. Most would have incurred considerable monetary loss if not physical damage. Finally, one of our members, M, offered to take us back to Hamilton (some 15 miles) to our house, where J's purse would yield the extra car key.

This solution was much preferable. A few miles toward our destination, it occured to me that the house key was also a taunting component of the incarcerated keychain. The only holder of a spare key was J's daughter who lived in the community on the far side of Hamilton.

"No matter," said M cheerfully. "We'll go wherever."

It was a long journey, taking in not merely the trip to get the key, but obviously a return to Oxford to make use of it. By midnight we were stumbling in, with work looming ever closer the next morning. However, the car was undamaged, and a lesson was learned.

According to this site,

The oldest known lock was found by archeologists in the Khorsabad palace ruins near Nineveh. The lock was estimated to be 4,000 years old. It was a forerunner to a pin tumbler type of lock, and a common Egyptian lock for the time.

That's impressive. Four thousand years of imbeciles locking themselves out of domiciles. Forty centuries of the inconvenience of non-conveyance.

I wonder if Khalil Gibran locked himself out of his studio before he wrote:

Your friend is your needs answered.

Thank you, M...
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Footnote: This article in Wired Online appeared in timely fashion today, although it probably does not apply to the situation described above.