BROKEN

     There are things that our parents said during our childhood, that are forever etched into our minds like letters chiseled into a fine granite slab.  One of those phrases was one that my mother seemed to scream at us with superior regularity.  “We just can’t have nice things!” she would bark, usually after an unfortunate turn of events, which saw one of her favorite lamps turned to a mangled heap on the floor.  Or, perhaps a rounded indention in the drywall, which strangely enough, had the same shape as my or my brother’s forehead, which would cause our exasperated mother to bellow that we couldn’t even have a nice home.  Apparently, history is repeating itself.
     Last week, after a day spent in the yard cleaning up debris from an especially hard winter, I decided that a short nap was in order.  I quickly entered the house and glanced at my watch, which told me that if a much needed snooze was in my future, I would need to hurry, as the troops would soon be home.  I tossed my dirty boots out onto the porch and positioned the pillows on the couch to my liking.  Finally, I gently and slowly lowered my weary body onto the awaiting cushions, only to sink like a rock in water all the way to the floor.  I laid still for a moment with my legs and chest nearly touching.  I felt somewhat like an accordion to be sure.  In the blink of an eye, I had been transformed from a happy nap taking soul into a pitiful old man stuck in an obviously broken couch.  After a bit of flailing, I was able to roll off onto the floor, and noticed that the cross brace, which spanned the width of the couch was broken and lying in two pieces amid the dust and debris which had collected in the darkness of the underside of the now broken piece of furniture.   “We just can’t have nice things!” I muttered to myself.  The rest of the evening was spent repairing the couch and interrogating the kids in a feeble attempt to find out who the perpetrator of such nonsense was.  Of course, the ghost that’s been breaking things in our home for years was at fault.
     I have adopted the motto, “If it ain’t broke, it ain’t ours.”  Nearly everything we own is either only partly working or broken in some fashion.  Recently, I noticed a large pile of clean clothes sitting in a basket in the laundry room.  Knowing how busy my wife can be in the evenings, I decided to fold and put away the heaping pile.  First, I lugged the clothing upstairs and then sorted it according to which room it belonged.  After the sorting, I grabbed the clothing that belonged in our daughters closet and galloped into her room, laid the clothes on her bed and opened the closet door.  There is a sinking feeling associated with having a bi-fold door, that upon the slightest touch ,  falls to the floor in a thunderous crash, all while the hapless victim tries to scramble out of the way and catch the door at the same time.  No such luck.  “We just can’t have nice things!”  I mumbled, from beneath the door, as the dog slinked away and out of sight down the hallway.  The laundry suddenly took a backseat to the repair job that was required to reinstall the door.  Naturally, the ghost had struck again.  Sidney, our daughter, had no knowledge of how the door came to be ripped from its track and nearly causing her pitiful father head trauma.
      My job often requires me to rise VERY early in the morning to make the long journey to work.   I have a routine.  My clothing is laid out the night before, lunch packed, wallet and car keys positioned on the kitchen counter, and I’m up and gone in less than fifteen minutes.  As you can tell, I’m a mild type-A person.  Once in a while, my routine gets turned on it’s head.   This past winter, I, as usual, arose from my bed, threw on my clothes, did my business in the bathroom, raced down the stairs, grabbed my wallet and keys and ran outside to my car.  Upon my arrival at the car, I opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, only to realize that someone had been in the seat since I had.  Suddenly, my upper torso was hunched over the steering wheel and my knees pressed uncomfortably into the dashboard.  Not only was the seat up as far as it could possibly go, but the elevation of the seat was set in a fashion that would have dumped me faced first into the windshield had it not been for the steering wheel.  “No problem,” I said into the stillness of the morning, while reaching down to find the button to readjust the seat.  I pushed the button.  Nothing.  I pushed again.  Nothing.  I then pushed harder.  Nothing.  I began pounding on the innocent button.  Nothing.  Finally, I slid out from my sardine like predicament and noticed that the button and its surroundings were ominously rearranged.  “We just can’t have nice things!”  I whined.  I drove to work, and back, with outstretched elbows  and knees  pressed into the dashboard, while each turn of the steering wheel meant holding my breath to prevent the untimely careening into rivers, ravines, and other vehicles.  As usual, the ghost had struck again.  “Who’s been playing in my car!” I barked as I walked into the kitchen that evening.
     “Not me!” came the kid’s reply, in unison, almost as if they’d been practicing.
     I could easily go on for hours, but I won’t.  You get the picture.  If it ain’t broke, it ain’t ours.  So, as a result of my own destructive ways from my childhood, I will continue to be plagued with broken doors, malfunctioning car seats, damaged furniture and a myriad of other items that have been converted into something that doesn’t exactly perform the same function that it was intended to do.  But alas, the children, ahem, ghost, is growing up and someday they will surely experience the same frustration as their pitiful old man.  I can hear them now, “We just can’t have nice things!”