It wasnít pride (or shame) that got me out of my recliner yesterday and out into the yard to do some serious work. It was the garage door opener. The remote, that is. It stopped working.
Itís been balking and giving me fits for months, but Iíve been putting up with it because Iíve always been able to make it work, with a little extra effort. The garage door assembly came with the house, and as you know my landlord isnít inclined to make repairs to anything that he considers a mere convenience. He flat out told me that if anything went wrong with the washer-dryer, I was on my own, so I knew better than to ask him about the garage door remote.
Still, when it stops working completely, the incentive to handle the problem goes up dramatically. As of yesterday, my solution was to leave the side door to the garage slightly ajar. And thatís what got me out of the house with the weed trimmer in my hand. The only way to get to that side door was through some of the highest weeds in all of the acreage. So I went out and hacked myself a path. It wasnít the best answer, but it was the only one I had. And it got me some much needed exercise in the bargain.