The very first time Grumpy and I set foot in America was on our honeymoon, almost 37 years ago. We stayed with an old wartime boyfriend of my mother’s (don’t ask) in Los Angeles. We had a wonderful time and, of course, as on any honeymoon, Ross and I enjoyed finding out new things about each other. Probably the most important thing we took back to England was we both shared the same burning ambition — one day we would own a remote-controlled garage door. We had never seen such a thing in England. You could press a gadget inside the car and garage doors would open automatically. Brilliant!
When we moved to Naperville, our ambition was finally achieved. It was great for two reasons. One, of course, was we could open the doors electronically. The other was that since the garage was always empty, so we could actually fit the cars inside. In England, our garage was so full of junk, we were lucky if we could open the doors manually, let alone park a car.
No one in England, at least that we knew, ever had a two-car garage, let alone a three-car version. Although I grew up in a very nice three-bedroom house with an attached garage in the northwest suburbs of London, my dad still had to crawl out of the window in order to get in and out of his car.
The first time I was able to click my way into our garage, I felt like was living in a movie. The door gracefully rose up and I could drive straight in. No more having to drag groceries in through the snow or have the ice cream melt in the height of summer. It was perfect. What I never considered was what would happen if the door opening system broke down.
Our first encounter with this problem came not long after we had moved into our first Naperville home.
“I can’t go to work today,” Grumpy stomped back into the bedroom first thing. “I can’t get the car out of the garage.”
“Has it broken down?” I asked, half asleep. I never really liked his first choice of car so thought this would be the perfect excuse to give it back and swap it for something cooler. I fancied a Porsche.
More Top Picks Chess Set
“No, the garage door won’t open.”
Clicking away with the remote did no good. The opener motor whirred around, but wouldn’t budge the door.
I called a repairman and within 10 minutes, the garage doors were open. Who knew there was a over-ride that meant pulling on a toggle from the ceiling would allow us to open the door manually? Everyone but us obviously. It was a temporary fix and we were persuaded we needed not only a new opener, but a whole garage door as well.
“How long have you had this?” the repairman asked. “Haven’t seen one for years. Probably couldn’t even get the parts. The door’s warped.” You get the picture.
But the good news was I could choose the new garage door I had always wanted. Our expert gave us a brochure to choose from.
“The price I gave you is for a door without any glass,” he said, waving his hand over the pictures. “If you choose from this range, it will be a little more expensive. .”
We made our choice and told him what we wanted.
“Because it’s my wife choosing, we have to have glass from this range,” said Grumpy begrudgingly.
“And because he’s my husband, it actually has to be plastic,” I growled.
We’d had no further problems until this winter, when once again the garage doors wouldn’t open. The first time was due to a broken spring that luckily cost us a mere $300 to fix. But a few weeks later, the problem was back.
“We’re going to have to call them back in,” I complained. “I can’t believe it’s happened again.”
“No, it’s different this time,” said Inspector Grumpy, circling around the house. “The door seems to have frozen to the ground. Look at all this ice.”
He did have a point. It was 20 below and upon further exploration, previously melted ice on the garage floor had frozen again, right below the entrance to the garage.
“I have the solution,” I said. “We just need to put down some de-icer. Wait a minute, I think we’re out, but we can get some more.”
“And how are we going to do that?” said Grumpy. “There’s no corner shop to walk to like in England. We can’t get the cars out of the garage, remember?”
“OK, I’ll boil some water while you get the hair dryer,” I said. I wasn’t entirely sure either would work, but it would keep us busy until spring arrived if it didn’t.
I’m not sure if the neighbors wondered why Grumpy was apparently drying his hair out on the driveway in the dead of winter, but fortunately what they couldn’t see was me boiling up water like a 1960s midwife in the kitchen.
Another hour nearer to spring and we were ready to try again.
“I’m going to bang the ice outside the garage door with a spade and you try and open the door from the inside,” Grumpy said.
“Bang, bang. Click, whirr. Silence.”
“You can open it now,” Grumpy yelled from outside.
“I did, it’s not working.”
More bangs. Nothing.
“I think we’re going have to call someone,” I said as he came inside to knock the icicles off his eyebrows. Having recently spent $200 to have two light bulbs replaced in the oven, this did not go down well.
Stomping off into the garage, he slammed his hammer down on the ground at the bottom of the door.
Now, even though this may have been what finally broke the grip of the ice, I like to think it was because I shouted “open sesame” as I put my finger on the button. The door rose majestically to reveal three neighbors and a child with a sled applauding.
More Top Picks Best Telescope Filters For Moon Viewing
“Don’t close it until I’ve chipped this stuff away,” said Grumpy before taking his curtain call with a shovel and a chisel. “The ice has congealed in one area, that was the problem.”
I’m pleased to reportthat since then, we’ve had no further frozen garage problems, at least if you don’t count the exploding cans of soda that have created a Jackson Pollack painting on the inside wall.
Since we’ve lived here, we’ve heard countless pieces of advice on how to protect your home from the cold, like leaving the faucets running and keeping the cupboard doors open to avoid frozen pipes. No one told us to make sure the inside of the garage is both water and soda free, but perhaps to everyone else but us, it is obvious.
Hilary Decent is a freelance writer who moved to Naperville from England a decade ago.