TO LOCK or NOT TO LOCK?

Every now and then this topic pops up; how when we were young, we never locked our front doors or our vehicles. There was no need.

In my old house, I'm pretty sure there was no lock and certainly no keys, so therefore you never locked the doors. And if by some chance someone did lock the door, well, it was absolutely a cinch to push a window up and tumble in. Don't ask me how I know................I've done it. After a boost. Short little Acadian legs you know..............And how many times did that happen at the East Point Lighthouse? Too many to count, don't even go there. Rusty locks were notorious! They certainly helped keep intruders O-U-T! Because most of the time, staff couldn't get in!

My grandmother never left the house, and with a bunch of us kids around there was always someone home. So I guess no locks were needed. And if she had ever locked the door at night before going to bed, how was Everett, after a night of drinking and guitar playing, going to get in? If he came home roaring drunk and the door was locked, he'd have thought he was at the wrong house! It just never happened.

I have such a vivid memory of an unlocked door in my childhood, that could have changed the course of my young life pretty quick.

I was home all alone, and I even remember why. Momma was in Boston, and Butch and I were crashing with Isabell and Joe for the duration. Darrell could have been with us there too, I'm not sure.

But I took the opportunity to mess around down home, as they say, in an empty house. I couldn't have been more than 10 or 12.

I was reading and I clearly remember coloring. It was so quiet in the little old house, and hot. I remember the stillness impressing me, as the house was never empty. And I remember the dusty smell of the warmth of a summer day, so easy to recall, because of course, the windows and doors were all shut up for the length of time Momma was gone.

But the quiet cozy day went on and shadows started to fall, and no one seemed to be missing little Nova. But by then my belly started grumbling and I realized I'd better skedaddle back to Isabell's. She was such a great cook and I knew supper would be something delicious!

But before I could get to the porch, a brisk knock on the door startled me, and I clearly remember the hairs standing straight up on my arms, I got such a fright. This was back in the day, where neighbors and family usually just walked in, no one knocked. So that was an immediate tip off that a stranger or a salesman was at the door.

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time in panic mode, and even if I went to the other door and took off running, whoever was in the porch would see me go by.

And then the door simply opened. And a very large man with a woman behind him stepped in. These days I'm pretty good with words, but as a little kid I was in over my head, and I was good and terrified. And then he called me by name.

"Are you Nova?"

I couldn't even answer, I was rooted to the spot. I guess maybe I nodded, I'm not sure.

"I'm your uncle. Dustique Comeau. Did your mother ever tell you about me?"

I still didn't answer, I was frozen. He stepped right into the little kitchen and it was getting quite dark by now and I didn't know enough to just run. I had an instinctive fear and I did not know who these people were. And I wasn't old enough to put it all together. I knew my uncles Art and Freddie and Everett and all the others around me, but I didn't know this man. Or my mother for that matter.

He continued, "I'm your mother's brother, from New Brunswick. And this is your aunt......."

If he'd said he was the Easter Bunny, it wouldn't have been any stranger. He asked if I was home alone, and readers, isn't that enough to drive a stake through your heart? When an unknown man corners a little girl alone..................But it soon became obvious to him that no one else was there. He was tall, at least to my eyes he seemed to be, I was so short; he was bald and he certainly had a big wingspan.

He wasn't getting much out of me, I was tongue tied. He reached into a pocket and brought out a photo of he and his wife, with his name scribbled on the back. He handed it to me and then he left.

By then I was weak and scared to go up to Isabell's alone, but I didn't have much choice. I had to skirt by the old Black Rafter, with it's hollowed out looking windows and past Jackie Doucette's barn, with his big black dog watching me and two cross geese in the yard. But somehow I did it, and I don't remember if I told Isabell or Joe what happened, or kept it to myself. But I do know I started bawling, and they just chalked it up to my missing Momma. I did miss Momma. And I left it at that.

But when Momma did get home, I handed her the picture, and she demanded the whole story. She flew into a rage (as only Momma could) when I started crying and got on the phone pronto to my mother in Labrador to find out if she had a brother. When all the jigs and reels flattened out, like many scary things in the light of day, there was a reasonable explanation. Uncle Dustique was indeed my mother's brother, and an RCMP officer to boot. He came to the Island from Caraquet to visit his sister, not knowing that she had already walked out on her family, and here was her little daughter all alone, answering the door to total strangers. This story could have had a darker ending, we've all heard the stories. I could have been another missing kid. Just a statistic.

But there you go. Years later, I was the grown up heading to New Brunswick to knock on a stranger's door to get acquainted with that scary uncle. Jamie and I took our family on a little trip every summer without fail, until they didn't want to go anymore. They were growing up. But this particular summer we decided it was time to go to the tiny French village where my mother was born and raised and meet some relatives.

Uncle Dustique was sure surprised to answer the door that day to these strangers, but we soon made friends. He invited us in, and we chatted a while. He let us know that his wife had passed away, he was a retired officer now, and he showed us pictures of his son and his daughter, my only cousins on that side, both RCMP officers.

We all went to a cute little restaurant nearby for lunch, and of course everybody knew him and called him by name. By this time another large swarthy man arrived, this time Uncle Romeo Comeau, and I don't remember where in the family he fit. But he seemed nice.

I never let on to Dustique how much he scared me, he probably didn't even remember it. And I never saw him again. Another chapter closed. I did my best.

Now, back to the topic of my Blog, and locked doors.

In this instance, a firmly locked set of doors might have deterred an intruder. Dustique wouldn't have attempted a break and enter, he just wanted to meet his sister's kids.

I'm lucky in this instance that it was my uncle.

What if it hadn't been? Locked doors only keep out honest thieves, they say. A true burglar or any other criminal would have just swiftly opened a window and went in. And I'm pretty sure all they would have found was a bottle of rotten milk in the fridge and a couple of Momma's Kennedy half-dollars beside a stack of questionable magazines. But still.

Nowadays, I wouldn't even go for my walk and leave my house open. And anybody who may drop in and find the door locked, but our rigs in the yard, well, we're on a walk somewhere. We just don't ever leave the doors open anymore. I used to joke to someone, "Oh if you need something, the front door might be locked, but the sliding patio doors are always open."

Nope, not any more.

Same with the car. I never used to lock my car, I never leave so much as a kleenex in it. It's empty. But even in the parking lot at the stores, whether in Souris, Montague or Town, I lock the doors. Faithfully. We all heard about the car that was stolen right around Christmas, right by the door of the Co-Op here in Souris. Pretty nervy.

So friends, I'm sure I'm not alone in my neurosis. So many things in our lives can be traced back to experiences as children. I don't like knocks at the door, I never did. They startle me unless I see you coming. We had to have a new steel door hung this spring. It has a pretty bevelled glass window, for light, but for privacy too. We can see when someone is here and greet them at the door.

Do you all see where I'm coming from?

And who else has a similar experience?

I wonder.......